


When a Good Man Goes to War

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Allow a reimagination, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Drama, Battle of Winterfell, Blend of book and TV series, But I hope to do each character justice, But I'll still take liberties, Down but not out Tywin, Eventual Romance, F/M, I'm not strictly following the sequence of events by D&D, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Battle of the Goldroad, Post-Destruction of the Sept of Baelor, Season 7 and 8 reboot, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Travel times are hopefully more realistic, Tyrion does not shoot to kill, Tywin survives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: Having narrowly escaped death at the hands of his own son, Tywin Lannister suddenly rouses from a coma eighteen moons later to find a world sore changed. His royal grandchildren are dead, the realm is in chaos, and his own daughter stands in the smoke and ashes on the brink of madness.There is no other recourse but to claim the throne by right of conquest. Tywin is now King and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, though severely weakened and with far fewer allies.But now dragons roam the sky and when a wight is dragged to the centre of a brief ceasefire in Dragonpit, Tywin knows that the fate of man hangs precariously in the balance.To ensure a future for the living, he ventures up to tame the North and bring Death itself to heel, only to learn that mortal dangers are often found closer to home… and closest of all to his heart.ORThe one where Tywin is King and shows Winterfell how to get dead-kicking shit done.





	1. Dragonpit

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/47825390121/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/33919257648/in/dateposted-public/)

_Was this a trap?_ Tywin wondered as he stared at the still, lifeless wooden crate in the dust. _A fool’s gamble?_ His eyes flicked up to the cloudless sky, each fleeting shadow cast down from above a silent reminder that the age of Dragons had, indeed, arrived.

Should the rumours be true and this silver-haired wench before him were wholly impervious to dragon fire, they were all utterly assailable. Pregnable. She need only give the word just as she did on the Goldroad and those flying beasts would open their fearsome jaws and decimate them all. 

Would she do that, this self-professed Mother of Dragons? Would she burn this pit to the ground and save only herself? It depended entirely on the contents of the crate now before him. 

Cersei huffed beside her father, and he sensed her waning patience as she closed her fist.  

“Well?” Tywin demanded, though his tone was deceptively genial. 

Sandor eyed him beadily and gave a grunt before he kicked the side of the box. Once, hard. And then again so the box flipped over. 

A supernatural shriek pierced Tywin’s ears and there burst forth a ghoul so desperate and terrible that Cersei startled. It flung itself instantly at them both, skeletal, rotting hands outstretched and clawed as if to gouge out their very eyes. Tywin’s proud daughter recoiled, her hand flying instantly toward her abdomen, fear leeching into her face even as her eyes hardened. Tywin was already on his feet, Widow’s Wail drawn and readied even as his own guards stood frozen as if spellbound. Jaime stood beside him, sword in hand.  

A sudden jerk and the monster was snatched back, barely a whisper away from meeting Tywin’s own blade. Sandor jerked the chain in his hands once more and the creature snarled before its gaoler swung his blade and cut it clean in two.   

An eerie stillness as all eyes in the Dragonpit stared at the divided carcass, watching as it twitched and turned as if in agony. Its fury was writ plain, its unholy screeching reverberating off the ancient stone walls around them so the skin could crawl with terror anew. Still it swiped, still it grasped futilely, one half lost while the other strove to find. 

Again another blow, a limb chopped off. Again another, and then another. 

“The only way to to kill’em is by burnin’ ‘em or cuttin’ ‘em with dragonglass,” Ned’s bastard spoke now, eyeing Tywin evenly. Jon Snow walked over from his tent to the twitching torso and retrieved his own blade: a roughly hewn black dagger with a deep, dull lustre that Tywin knew instantly. _Rock glass from Dragonstone_. A single stab was all it took: the unnatural monstrosity seemed to shatter instantly, turning to a dark body of liquid for but a moment before collapsing to a black putrid puddle on the arid ground.  

A harsh silence as every son of the Andals and every daughter of the First Men stared. As every self-made ruler and usurper, mercenary and knight came to the same reckoning. The Greyjoy kinslayer was first to speak, declaring his allegiance as belonging to him and his people alone. And Tywin barely paid the swaggering, traitorous whelp heed when he turned like the brash recreant he truly was and departed their company. 

Instead, the old King stared at the obsidian pool before him, a stone of sickening icy dread forming in the pit of his stomach. The rules of man's great game of thrones were changed forever.  

The real battle had come.  

* * *

"You cannot mean this."

The sun was slipping under the horizon now, the shadows in the great room having lengthened in the last few moments till they brushed and blended into dark. But even in the dim flickering light, his daughter’s agitation burned bright as day.  

Tywin watched as Cersei paced the length of the small council's table before rounding back to glare at him. "Let them fight and die in this war alone!" she seethed and pleaded. "It's why we left them the North all these years! Let this be their fight." 

She stopped in front of Jaime now. "Tell him, brother!" She stared into his eyes and held them in a silent conversation of the thousand silent conversations between his twin children. One would think they shared a soul, although Tywin knew better.  

"I'm sorry, Cersei,” his son murmured instead. "But I will serve our King. We have to fight this... these..." 

"It will be slaughter." Her voice had died to a whisper, a hiss. “You will go and you will die, and for what? Do you honestly believe, do you _think_ we would make a difference? Do you truly want to die up North? In that desolation, that hideous, lifeless, cold white _nothing?_ " 

"I do not intend to die at all," King Tywin eyed his daughter steadily. "Which is why we must enter this war." 

"We all saw what we saw!" Cersei sat down beside her father now. "How can we even hope to forfend such nightmares..." She stared at her hands before her for a moment, and when she met his stern gaze this time, she wore a tight and nasty smile. 

"Don't you see?" she pleaded, her mother's emerald eyes gleaming. "If they fight the undead and win, our world continues although they may not. Their numbers will surely suffer and we will be the sole beneficiary of their heroic deeds for then, we can deliver our own death blow when they march South. But if they should lose—" 

"If they should lose — and they most definitely will without our help — the undead will outnumber us thirty to one, and then the time of Man will truly be over!" Tywin snapped, his gaze hardening. "Your cowardice will cost us all. Even as a strategem against Daenerys and the North alliance, the odds are hardly in our favour. Your plan has all the hallmarks of self-sabotage and reckless optimism that only desperate, hysterical self-preservation will weave and wreak. I intend to see out _both_ wars, and thus I would never leave the fate of humankind to an untried, unlearned, undisciplined company of children up North. They may have the numbers, daughter, but not the mind nor the mettle!" 

Tywin stood now and Jaime drew himself straighter, suddenly alert. The old familiar pain shot up Tywin's breast and arm but he schooled his face to a glare. 

"No," he eyed Cersei coldly. "It is decided. I will send a raven to Winterfell and give the Targ girl and Ned's bastard my word to fight alongside them. For now." 

"And if that blonde bitch should demand that we bend the knee?" 

"Then the gods help us all for her grasping stupidity."  


	2. Enter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to thank all of you who came out in force and blew me away with the screaming for more. I heard you loud and clear. It's totally humbling to bumble into this ship and to be received so warmly. Thank you so much for giving me the big push to make this happen.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/33948138388/in/dateposted-public/)

 

The room was still awash with darkness, though he knew it in his gut to be day. Another sign of impending winter, perhaps. Long nights, shorter days.  

Not nearly enough days. 

He turned carefully, but she stirred anyway. Jaime felt his sister move, one long smooth leg pressing him down as her fingers, her slender hands slipped around his neck and beckoned him down to her lips. 

“Don’t go,” she murmured, brushing them across the shell of his ear so he shuddered despite himself. 

“You know I must.” 

“I know no such thing. You need not. You _must_ not. Yet you chose.” 

“Don't be childish, Cersei. You know I must.” 

She pulled herself to sit now and even in the dark he could just make out her stare of scorn.  

“He commands and you jump like a dancing dog. You always have.” 

“You know that is not true.” He said this mildly, but it still rankled him. _How easily you forget the things I do for love. How easily you misremember and then torment. I gave up my birthright…_

“I must hurry anyway. The servants—“ 

“—can go hang!” she finished viciously. “I don’t care. I’ve always told you I don’t care.” 

“They will tell Uncle Kevan. You know they will.” 

“And then he can go hang.” 

“Cersei…” 

She kissed him now, swallowing his tired pleas for restraint, for caution. And the gods help him, but he slipped his arms around her wine-thickened waist, pressing himself into her until her head met the bed once more, until he had climbed over her, his desire for her cunt ripened anew.  

“Our uncle knows anyway…” she whispered now as he sucked and bit her nipples so she hissed and arched in pleasure. “He’s known for a time. Even you know this, in your heart of hearts.” 

He said nothing, directing his mouth to the hollow at her hip. But his shoulders were tensed as he listened. 

“Of course, he’ll never tell Father. His precious, precious brother… perhaps they are fucking as well?” A small, mirthless laugh. “The charade, the pretense… it galls me that we should slink about. I hate it, I hate it!”  

Jaime said nothing, as he’d learnt long ago to do. To fight her would be to lose — and worse: to heighten her anger and invite her malice. And he needed this to be a sweeter farewell. Only the Seven knew if he would return, after all. And chances were that he would not, if the hideous spectacle in the Dragonpit were anything to go by. 

Death… and perhaps a kind of peace and freedom. Jaime invoked the gods often enough in his speech, but like his father he rather suspected that all which truly lay beyond this life was… nothing. And was Nothing better than this: laying with the woman and kin who killed their own child? His own son and boy? 

He slipped inside her now, shafting her hard and without ceremony, hearing the air leave her lungs as he slammed into her slickened channel. Almost angrily now he rammed her and fucked her, a frenzied pace that shook the bed and knocked the posts against the stones. And she loved it, the sick twisted cunt that was the sister he desired like sin. She started to cry out and he silenced her, first with his hand and then his mouth, his tongue. 

He hated and loved her and hated her some more. And when he could not possibly hate her any harder, he would climb into her bed and seek comfort from her teats and cunt. For who else could possibly understand the losses, and how they cut so deep? And yet she refused to speak of Tommen. Even now.  

“Don’t go… don’t go…” she begged him with each thrust. “Stay… you must stay with me!”  

He finished with a groan, filling her before he could pull out. They lay panting in the silvering dark, the sun starting to creep up upon the horizon. Any moment now and the servants would come. And perhaps he truly did not care anymore. Or was that very thought an omen of his death? 

“You would die,” she announced now, as if his thoughts were her own. “You could die out there. Your hand… You _would_ die,” she finished flatly.  

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. 

“Do you not love me, Jaime? Your own sister?” She held his hand now, pressing it to her face and he was astounded to find it wet with tears. _Were they real?_

“Am I not reason enough for you to stay?” she asked, voice breaking.  

“Cersei, I fight for you! I fight for us!” He kissed her now. “You are safe here.” 

“You know full well that is a lie!” she spat. “I’m not here because it’s safe… I’m here because I’m his prisoner! Still! Our father rides a hundred leagues north and he still remains my gaoler. Do not look at me like I am pitiful or mad, Brother!” Her voice was rising to a shrill. “I am a prisoner in my own tower. If I were not, then why is Uncle Kevan ruling in Father's stead and not I?” 

“You are the Queen Mother and no more!” _Were the Queen Mother._

“I HELD THE SEVEN KINGDOMS TOGETHER WHILE HE SLEPT LIKE THE DEAD!” Cersei screamed and started to punch and pummel him. And Jaime let her. He should strike the bitch and knock some fucking sense into her, but he only understood her too well.  

And then she dissolved into tears anew, wetting his chest as she begged and begged him again. And still he would not budge from his purpose.  

For nothing could ever remove what he saw and felt when he stared at the undead monstrosity that afternoon. 

“Am I not reason enough for you to stay?” she pleaded once more, taking his hand to brush it against her cunt. “And if not, I give you another!” And she took his hand and pressed it onto her belly.  

Jaime stilled then.  

“When!” he asked hoarsely, when he could finally speak. 

“She is barely past a moon old.” 

“ _She?_ ” His heart seemed to skip and his sister smiled with knowing.  

“Another Myrcella…” 

“There will never be another Myrcella!”  

“Then one very much like her goodness!”   

He smiled at the prospect now, his heart full and yet newly afeard. New life! And yet he must march to certain death in order to help secure it.  

Another thought.  

“Father… and Uncle Kevan... You have no husband now.” 

Cersei rolled her eyes. “You men will never cease to think so very little of women. That is your downfall, but all the more to my advantage. I have a plan, Brother, do you not know this of me by now? I always have a plan.” 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/47796248241/in/dateposted-public/)

 

All Northern eyes were narrowed and watchful when the Kingsroad Gate eventually parted and a sea of deep red trotted in. The silence in the courtyard hung thick and icy as the wind. There were no cheers nor applause, not even a formal herald; indeed Daenerys’s welcome barely a moon ago might almost be remembered for hearty now, set so starkly against this bristling hostility of Lannister Red Cloaks.

_For the North remembers,_  thought Sansa Stark. _Indeed, she never forgets._   

There had not been a raven. Winterfell had not expected a temporary truce, much less the ready supply of their forces. For weeks, the others had waited for a raven or a messenger telling them differently, even as Sansa knew full well not to expect anything at all. She had quietly watched as Jon had grown disappointed and anxious, Daenerys vengeful and furious. But then neither had ever spent time in court, not even for a proper visit. While she… her spirit had been ground to dust often enough within those glittering, hateful walls. Sansa had not been surprised, so it naturally followed that she could not be disappointed. 

Lannisters only cared about one thing: Lannisters. And even then, they made their exceptions.

Tyrion crept up to her side now and in silence both he and his former Lady Wife stood staring like sentinels from the covered bridge above the immense yard. “Vylarr,” he  murmured, pointing out the captain of the orderly calvary pouring in. And Sansa wondered if Tyrion had instead hoped for his brother. It would have been vain wishfulness of course. No Lannister would spare their own precious necks if they could help it. They would sooner see their enemies’ own stuck on pikes, and what easier way than to sacrifice the North and buy themselves time and hope. Even a temporary, hopeless sort of hope.

It had been a gamble, going beyond the wall. And what had Jon achieved, except to confirm the ambitions of the South? They had wasted precious time…  

It seemed a small eternity as the company of Red Cloaks eventually formed two long flanks, parting down the middle to fashion a narrow corridor. Sansa started to shuffle, a growing unease tightening her chest. Tyrion shifted beside her, straining now to see. The corridor now formed, a pregnant hush soon fell over them all — but only for a moment. And then they heard it: the clatter of hooves against the straw and stone. 

A ripple ran through the pressing throng below and Sansa felt Tyrion tense before sharply filling his lungs with freezing air. For lo, _Tywin Lannister himself_ now galloped in like a mythical god on his destrier, his unsmiling mien made all the more formidable with his furs, his Kingsguard moving as one behind him. Here before them now the Old Lion swept through the length of the yard before he slowed to a stop and Sansa was instantly transported back to the first time she laid eyes on this man riding tall on his steed. How his armour was burnished red steel inlaid with ornate scrollwork; how his golden cloak shone, affixed on each broad shoulder to a roaring lioness. How imposing he was, all golden and ruby, as if he owned the world, his disdain for one and all palpable right to the moment his destrier shat on the floor of the throne room. 

Sansa watched now as this self same man dismounted heavily, as he flicked his eyes upward and caught her gaze before turning away to stride inside. And all she could feel was… nothing. Not anger, not anguish. Not chilling terror nor the gnaw for revenge. This was the man she had feared all through her girlhood. The man who controlled her destiny through puppets on strings. Who coolly underwrote the deaths of her brother and mother to win a war. Who married her off to the child he loathed, all for her name’s sake. Who stood by when his wretched, unnatural grandson slaughtered her father and made her watch. And then opened her wounds ceaselessly for his own sick pleasure.  

And she felt… nothing at present. Except the cold and the wind. And perhaps that was what anger felt like when it had long hardened into ice.

“This ought to be interesting,” was all her former Lord Husband quipped before he left her side.


	3. Mother of Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for your patience and my apologies for the long wait. Real Life has thrown me quite a few doozies in the last little while, including my poor car's run-in with a kangaroo, our washing machine almost flooding the laundry, my daughter requiring emergency dental work, and the federal elections. 
> 
> But I'm back. I've not forgotten. And I hope you enjoy this one. xx

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/47935810853/in/dateposted-public/)

She heard his footsteps soft on the snow but she did not turn to acknowledge her bald, effeminate advisor, nor to admit that she had secretly sought refuge away from him, from everyone. Daenerys Stormborn did not belong here in this godswood with its bloody crying tree but she was drawn to its stillness nevertheless. This strange acreage, surrounded by austere and unforgiving stone, proved lately a dependable and lonely escape from this too-crowded world. This forlorn, bitter, cold world with its Northmen and its wildlings and its silent codes and secret customs and simmering suspicion of their new queen.  

Varys stood a respectful distance away and she ignored him for now, crooning instead to her firstborn who nuzzled against her touch before knocking her gently against the ancient bark so its red sap stained her furs. Drogon had found the godswood first, and though Daenerys was sure their presence in this sacred wood might have trespassed on a primitive northern custom she was yet to learn, she cared not for their ire. This, here, was the most content she had seen her children in a while.  

“Are they well?” Varys ventured, and she closed her eyes at his obsequious tone. It made little sense that she should start to feel this way about her trusted councillor. And yet lately, she saw animosity in every face and wondered about the shadows. 

“They hate the weather,” she replied, her back to Varys still. 

“It is a harsh winter,” she heard him explain and willed herself not to imagine defiance. “Even the Northmen have commented on the winds. And it is not like them to ever admit to feeling the cold.” 

“Your queen does not feel the cold,” she reminded Varys pointedly, turning to face him now. 

“No she does not,” he readily agreed. But then he continued to ask softly, “What of your children, Your Grace? Do they feel the cold?” 

“They breathe fire!” 

“They are reptilian. And the North was known for their inhospitable cold, even before winter.”  

At that, Daenerys's face drew tight and she measured her words before turning away once more. She had known that little would slip by her strange, soft adviser. And yet hearing her own suspicions harden into painful fact served only to stoke her anxieties to a fever pitch.  

“They are fine,” she lied almost to herself. “But can you blame them? They are dragons, not feeble direwolves. And they are still growing.” 

“Winterfell is doing all they—" 

“Are they?” She spun round to face their defender. “Drogon and Rhaegal have hardly eaten a full meal since we arrived. If they do not thrive, it is because _she_ won’t let them!” 

"Your Grace..." Daenerys felt him edge closer and willed herself to calm. "Lady Sansa is doing all she can to sustain us all. She feeds _us—“_

“—a fact she never ceases to remind me. Or Jon.” 

“Her concern is one that is shared by all, Your Grace. By our presence, their stores are halved or more since we did not bring our own supplies.” 

“You know very well why we couldn’t,” she retorted, her lilac eyes turning dark. “If you were truly so astute and concerned as Lady Sansa is, perhaps you should have negotiated a better freedom instead of losing my fleet. I NEEDED THOSE SLAVER SHIPS.” 

Mercifully they broke, the beating of Rhaegal’s wings stealing their thoughts and choice words for a moment so she could swallow her anger. But again she noted the colour of his scales and the way he would move his head from side to side listlessly, as if in silent protest to his surrounds.  

She had tried the other afternoon, after a long and lonely flight. Rhaegal would not breathe fire on her command.  

“She needs to feed my children,” Daenerys announced flatly after a time. “She needs to feed them well, lest they start on the younglings. And the North will never forgive me that.” _Nor would I forgive myself,_ she knew and shivered, but not from the cold.  

“I will speak to Lady Sansa, Your Grace.” 

“I am her Queen. She will do as I say. Leave her no choice on the matter, Varys. No matter who her brother is. I know my children will win this war. I know they will win _all_ wars — each of them is worth a hundred, a thousand of these sulking Northmen. Their survival means our survival. And starving them is utter foolishness. She must understand this.” 

“I will speak to Lady Sansa, Your Grace.” But she heard his hesitation and turned to face him then, her manner cold though her eyes were ablaze.  

“But?” 

“Your Grace, you have your dragons _and more_. Do not forget that you have collected many different weapons to wield against our enemies.” 

“Is it Tyrion? Has he been in your ear?” Daenerys huffed into the frigid air. “I know he thinks I am rash and foolhardy, that I put too much store on my children.” She said the last tersely. 

“Has he ever told you this?” 

“Not in so many words, which means I know he thinks it. I know he was not pleased at all when I defied his advice and flew beyond the wall. And yet, by going against his counsel, we are here today. I saved Jon, did I not? I saved them all!” 

“Taking the wight was also his idea, Your Grace…” Vary gently reminded his queen and she rolled her eyes. 

“Yet another foot placed wrong...” 

“He was not wrong, My Queen. Tywin Lannister has just entered Winterfell." 

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/33919257648/in/dateposted-public/)

He had been told that the Great Hall was filled to bursting, but a narrow passage awaited them now as he and his retinue entered through the stone doorway swiftly, not breaking stride as they swept past hissing wildlings and muttering Northmen alike.  

As Tywin strode in, his hooded eyes raked the modest hall before resting on what lay ahead of him. A long and ancient banquet table sat athwart the breadth of the room, behind which now presided a small tribunal of younger faces etched lightly by time and adversity. But for the few figures he recognised instantly that caused the gold in his eyes to harden, Tywin's stern countenance remained unchanged. 

His searching gaze caught abruptly on a tall and handsome young lady garbed in thick noble furs, and it took him a quiet breath before he placed her from his memories. _Joffrey's betrothed — Ned's girl._ A rush of impressions — most of them half-torn pieces — coursed his mind’s eye as he strove to reconcile the petrified girl of his past life to the stately woman before him, wearing a visage so haughty as to mirror his own. He slowed his steps and ground to a halt in the middle of the crowded room.  

The hall hushed to silence and Vylarr opened his mouth to speak, but his pronouncement was cut short instantly by a slender foreign maid with bushy hair who now stepped forward to do just the same. 

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, _rightful_ heir to the Iron Throne..." 

It was then that Tywin truly noticed the diminutive figure sat in the place of honour at their tribune. Daenerys Stormborn could not have been older than one score and five and yet she emanated the imperious confidence of ten old swollen kings. Or perhaps that very self-assurance of her destiny was the hallmark of her ignorant and brash youth. Tywin had heard enough whispers of her romantic crusades against the slavers to know that much of her at least.  

Meantime, he clenched his jaw at the impudence and waited as the pretentious litany drew to a close, whereupon Vylarr cleared his throat and without a trace of irony, announced to the hall the selfsame.   

"Behold Tywin of the House Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms—" 

"Surely not," japed the silver-haired pretender with a serene smile dripping with sour venom. "Protector of three, perhaps four kingdoms, at best." 

A few titters rippled through the hall then and Tywin noted who her devotees were. More tellingly, he learnt who saw little humour in her quip. Not many of the North bannermen, for one. The visage of his treacherous kinslayer had clouded over, and even Ned's bastard seated beside his new queen looked ill at ease, as if the lad were in sore need of a long shit. And as for the Lady of Winterfell... Tywin watched with interest the moment her face shuttered, then smoothed to porcelain perfection. 

"Why have you come?" the platinum child demanded to know now, whereupon King Tywin fixed her with a glare and when he would not deign to answer such an artless, pointless question, he watched her falter slightly as she went on to explain. 

"We had no word you were coming. And yet here you are. How do we know you come with the purest of intentions." 

"We sent several ravens." 

"We received none of them." 

"To be fair, Your Grace..." chimed the gentle oriental notes of his former Master of Whisperers, "we have suspected for some time now that ravens cannot survive this new inclement weather." Varys had the gall to look apologetic. "My Lord, this winter—" 

"You will address King Tywin as 'Your Grace', traitor!" barked one of his Kingsguard and at once, a sharp chorus of steel resounded through the hall as weapons were drawn at the ready. Tywin shot his ardent Kingsguard a withering look that made its mark as the younger man retreated to his place, chastened.  

"Your appeal for arms at the Dragonpit was loud and clearly received," Tywin went on to say drily. "Your demand, of course, for an immediate alliance to be forged was ambitious, but I have since given your evidence serious consideration and made my preparations. The Realm is prepared to back your fight against the Undead." 

"It is not our fight," Ned's Bastard spoke now, his thick eyebrows furrowed in consternation. "You speak as if this were the fight that belongs to th' North. But it is a fight that comes for us all. So long as we inhabit the land of the Living, th' Dead come for us. This as much your fight as 'tis ours!" 

To that, Tywin pinched his lips before conceding to the young man's logic with a single nod.  

"And you suppose now that you and your men may simply be made welcome?" The young Targaryen bitch raised a single eyebrow. "That you would come here and presume to be my equal, that you expect me to invite you in as you are..." 

"Your Grace?" cautioned The Imp now, his eyes flitting over to Tywin before they returned to beseech his new mistress. "It is what we asked..." 

"You betrayed my father!"  

A thick blanket of silence fell over the hall as the pitch of her voice rose to righteous indignation. Behind him, every Red Cloak stood tense and attentive. Tywin stared down the child and waited for the rest of her ire.  

“You killed my family. You, who extinguished from this earth half of my closest blood in a cold blink of an eye. Mere children!” Daenerys rose slowly to stand, eyeing each Northmen and foreign blood as she soaked into her newfound grief. "A baby,” she cried out now, "plucked from his mother and dashed against the wall, his brains still in your cutthroat’s hands as he raped his mother — my own brother’s beloved wife! You, Tywin Lannister, who sanctioned untold depravity, who carved your way through King’s Landing on a lie, your heartless Red Cloaks raping countless women and children. And then,” she seethed now, her voice trembling with virtuous rage, her face flushed as if in ecstasy, “your _son_. How he murdered his own King — the very man he had sworn to protect, thus destroying his own honour and the name of Lannister forevermore. You are murderers, you and your rotting tribe. I would never—“ 

“Are you holding court now?” Tywin snapped, his patience finally worn through. “Is this a trial? Have you fashioned yourself now as victim, testifier, and justice? You, who inherited these tales from your beggar brother. You, who were not even _born_ when this history was burnt black into time? How dare you ride high on your borrowed fury, child of madness? For such was your father, you know. All of us who loved him once saw his descent into chaos. And you, unformed whelp, testifying against _me?_ ” Tywin’s voice thundered, robbing his accuser of her speech for the moment.  

He glowered at her lover now. “And as for you, Jon Snow. Making your bed with a Targaryen when your own kin suffered at their hands. Or do you not remember, you Northmen?” Tywin asked, turning around slowly to face the room. “How it was Eddard Stark who swore to avenge the savage executions of his father and brother? How they had died at the hands of _her father_ , protecting the honour of Eddard’s beloved sister?” A wave of discomfiture moved through the room as the Northmen started to look one to another. Tywin turned back to face the bastard now.  

“Your grandfather, roasted in his own armour while your uncle was chained and made to watch,” he recounted evenly now, his gaze unblinking. "Your uncle, given just enough rope to strangle himself while trying in vain to free his father from a madman who was deluded enough to believe he was a dragon reborn.” Tywin smirked humourlessly as Jon looked away then.  

“Beware when playing with fire, boy.” 

“How… dare… you!” Daenerys growled through gritted teeth as the metallic ring of drawn swords sang against the stone and the room broke into an angry murmur. But Tywin merely snorted, eyeing the brooding boy beside her now. True enough, his words had made their mark and Ned’s bastard looked around at the bristling Northmen and grew suddenly wiser. 

“Enough!” he shouted suddenly and when he had commanded the room, he rose to stand. “We fight a bigger enemy than ourselves. When this war is over, if we win — and that is a true uncertainty — then you may kill each other in this very room for all your lives’ worth. But for now, we must desist for the greater war upon us!” Jon Snow turned to Tywin now. “Is this all you have brought? Just you and this cavalry?” 

“My son marches now with the rest of our foot soldiers and cavalry, along with our supply train and weaponry. They arrive in a fortnight.” 

“How many men in all?” 

“Ten thousand.” 

The Northern bastard considered this new fact gravely but seemed pleased.  

“Anything else?” 

“My experience,” was the King’s dry reply. He stared at the spread of young faces before him and when he spoke again, his tone was deadly serious.  

“None of you are tried in battle, not truly.” Tywin held up his hand as Daenerys began to count her successes in Essos, long foreseeing her precious indignation and wounded pride.  

“Conquering hearts and slaves is hardly a game of cyvasse,” he countered sharply, before mellowing his words with effort. “Your successes, while famous, were not forged through siege nor strategy. Your Dothraki are fierce but unused to instruction. Your Unsullied are trained but as yet, not wholly tried. More than that, none of you are truly experienced — not even the ones who claim to have masterminded more recent successes.” He continued to stare at Daenerys now, ignoring the misshapen monstrosity in the corner of the table, the one she now called her Hand. 

“War demands wit and steel as much as courage and strength, if not more.” Tywin flicked his eyes over to the rest of the room. “These are battle hardened men as am I, and yet all of us are holed up in this tiny hall fighting to stay alive because the Undead scares the living shit out of us all. Do not let foolish pride weaken our position now. Use my wisdom.” 

“Only if you bend the—“ 

“You are a fool and insult us both if you think I would come up all this way to give the throne over to the daughter of a pyromaniac,” Tywin cut in coldly. "Stop wasting my time. I will offer an armistice, and no more.” 

“You forget that I am the Mother of Dragons!” 

Tywin stared at the girl and marvelled inwardly at her unassailable self-belief.  

“ _Two_ dragons,” he qualified quietly, and saw her cut to the quick at his pointed rejoinder.  

“Yes, two dragons!” she echoed him now, her eyes blazing with grief and fury. “And what is to stop me from burning you all this instant and taking your troops for myself?” 

“Then we all die.” And at her quiet words, all eyes turned to fasten on the Lady of Winterfell. The Targaryen bitch stared at Ned’s girl in disbelief but the latter returned her gaze evenly. 

“I have every reason to despise the man before us, Your Grace,” she spoke softly now but there was not a single soul in the hall who did not strain to hear her. “His monstrous grandson killed my father, and then forced me to look upon his head on a pike. House Frey betrayed my brother, my sister by marriage, and my beloved mother only because Lord Walder had the tacit support of the man before us. This man here married me off against my will to the son he hates more than anyone. He stood by while I was beaten, bloodied, cursed and insulted. While his daughter played my tormentor. While every human dignity was stripped from me until I was left broken and helpless like a used whore.” Sansa Stark threw the full weight of her stare like a javelin as she locked eyes with Tywin, and he was left in no doubt now as to the long memory of the Northern girl. A silence fell like a shroud over the room and he found himself unable to look away. 

And then she blinked and it was as if a spell were broken. She turned away gracefully now as if wholly indifferent to his presence.  

“And yet, Your Grace, he is here,” she returned to the pretender who now looked paler and smaller beside the Northern woman. "And if what he says is true — that Ser Jaime comes north as well with the rest of their men — then they feel the threat just as we do. He stood nothing to gain from coming here otherwise. Jon—“ She looked across now at her brother. “Remember… our father was, above all, a man of honour.” And at her words, Ned’s bastard looked almost ashamed. 

Sansa Stark turned to face the Great Hall now and Tywin felt all eyes on her as she took a moment to consider her words. 

“I believe,” she began finally, “that this man here sees and tells the truth, that we do not know how to defeat our common enemy.” Her gaze fell slightly now so it met his own. 

“King Tywin, as Lady of Winterfell, I extend to you guest rights. The North welcomes you and your own.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes — a few changes already from the TV series, as you've just read. There are a few new and different tangents I want to pursue, so please bear with me as I tweak several "world realities" in this alternate version. 
> 
> Yes. Dragons are reptiles. Reptiles aren't great in the cold, even mythical ones in this case. What's a Mother of Dragons to do?


	4. A Lion by its tail

 

 

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Though she willed herself to tread lightly, the dark wood and granite still marked her progress down the dimly lit corridor as she made her way to the covered bridge. Sansa bid her heart to calm, her blood to cool, her hands to stop trembling, lest she should meet any of the Northern lords and renew, prematurely, their cantankerous campaign for rebellion. 

_I wish you had not done that, Lady Sansa._

_Your Grace, I fervently wish the same of you._

She thinned her lips, still swallowing with effort her clever words and bitter phrases. The memory of Jon suddenly playing the mute made Sansa scowl and in the shadows now, she worked to smooth the creases of her deep displeasure. 

_You had undermined my standing, Lady Sansa. You had forgotten I am your Queen._

And even Jon had roused then, as if awakened from a stupor. Their eyes had locked and Sansa had thrown her daggers before turning a clear, dispassionate gaze towards the slender Mother of Dragons. 

_Forgive me, Your Grace,_ she had murmured like a chastened bondservant, like a traitorous bleating mountain goat. _I did not think. I wished only to sue for peace until the Undead are overcome. To pursue your higher intent—_

_You made me look…_

A fool. Daenerys had not finished her thought, though the words had hung in the frosty air between them and Sansa had wisely kept her head bent and obedient, even as she towered coolly over the silvery head of the Targaryen who conquered her brother. _Men!_ And Sansa's boots clicked against the heated stone with renewed agitation before she quieted herself to slow once more.  

_Arya would understand_ , she thought now, peering over the wooden balustrade at the training yard below for a glimpse of her raven-haired sister. They had traded few words and even fewer sentiments regarding their brother’s choice, but in this Sansa knew they were of one mind as they have strangely been of late. Arya loved her brother like no other — no, not even Robb — and was most protective of his soul.  

_I look to you as a sister,_ Daenerys Stormborn had suddenly declared, and Sansa’s head had snapped up then, her lips parting soundlessly, too appalled to laugh or shout her disbelief. Again she had idly marvelled at the extraordinary lilac of the Targaryen’s eyes. How someone so preternaturally beautiful could grate under her skin worse than a stinging bed of poison nettles.  

_Your Grace,_ was all Sansa had trusted herself to say eventually, curtsying then. Swallowing the bile as she had pasted a small smile on her face, as if quietly honoured and secretly pleased. 

_(We’re all liars here, sweetling…)_

_I love your brother,_ that foreign queen, that accroacher had gone on to softly say before her voice had hardened to steel. _But if you ever humble me in front of my enemies again…_

Sansa heard him before he crossed the training yard and instinctively, she withdrew to the middle of the bridge until he passed beneath her, he along with a small patrol of Red Cloaks. Tywin Lannister still cut a tall and commanding figure even as she noted the way his arm hung stiffly by his side. Even as she stared, as she summoned in her mind’s eye the specter of his infamous injuries beneath his golden armour.  

They said Tyrion had missed his father's heart — a most fitting metaphor. That the arrow had fucked the Old Lion's left arm for good. That Tywin Lannister had wasted away almost to skin and bone by the time the Great Sept ruptured into the skies. That he had been kept alive by magic and mystery, the selfsame blackened arts of the maester that had brought Gregor Clegane to half-life.  

And yet the man before her now was grave, imperious, upright and sound. He was full-blooded and, from his recent theatrics with Daenerys, most certainly alive. Aged, perhaps. Thinner, since last she saw him on Joffrey’s death day. At the memory, Sansa touched her hair. She, too, had changed. 

Almost as if Tywin heard her very thoughts, he turned suddenly and looked about him. Sansa made her mind then, stepping silently into view. She watched as he sensed her movement immediately, his head snapping up to the bridge so their eyes caught and held. Lord Tywin, _King Tywin_ , stilled instantly before gravely nodding once. Now she, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell _and far more beloved_ , returned the solemn salutation in kind, sinking to a curtsy as was the custom, though never so lowly as to shrink herself in his presence. Still, she dared not breathe nor blink till he turned and resumed his course, his manner aloof and dismissive of her. 

Tywin of the House Lannister and First of His Name was in her debt, Sansa smirked suddenly. And he knew it too.  

* * *

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/48036834068/in/dateposted-public/)

“What’s with you tonight?” teased Arya as she deftly flicked Needle and stopped just short of the taller woman's bulbous nose. “I’m starting to lose the count now.”

“Fourteen,” glowered Brienne, but even the gruffness of her answer seemed half-hearted and Arya squinted in the near dark at her sparring opponent.

“You tired?”

‘Hardly.”

“You’re distracted, that much is plain.”

And at that, the Tarth giantess fell silent and Arya slid Needle back in her place. She waited even as Brienne grimaced and obstinately tightened her generous lips until they could almost be called thin. It was only when a small patrol passed behind them that the answer finally revealed itself. Brienne stared at the Old Lion a moment too long before quickly looking away.

“What, _him?_ ” Arya giggled and bore the brunt of a deathly glare. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’ve been keeping one eye on the Lannister guards since I defeated you four rounds ago. Something — or someone — is preying on your mind tonight. So much so I think I could make this an even fifteen…”

Instinctively, Brienne dropped to a low guard and parried reflexively, catching Arya’s cut which the younger girl then deftly contorted to a thrust. On and on they drove each other around their imaginary ring even as the last light slipped into the ink of night and the bitter winds kicked up the high walls around them in a wail. This time, Arya noted with satisfaction the ferocity of Brienne’s attentions. The older, bigger lady was an excellent swordswoman whose technique was perfect almost to a fault. Arya had learnt immensely from Brienne the finer points of classical swordplay and footwork — not that she would ever admit the same. But It was her hope that she, in turn, would teach this proud and sensitive warrior the necessity and usefulness of fighting dirty...   

_Valar Morghulis._

Even in the whipping wind she heard him as clearly as if he had brushed the words against the shell of her ear.  _Valar Morghulis._ Arya reddened instantly, her eyes darting about the wide expanse of the yard as she swung around too wide, counter-thrusting Brienne's downward cut with an ugly upward twist at Brienne's wrist. 

_Where are you?_ she silently searched the dark, her heart suddenly thudding against her thin chest. 

_A girl's eyes are open but she does not see._

* * *

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/33919257648/in/dateposted-public/)

An armoury was no place for a highborn lady, but then the North had always been proud of their singular, stubborn ways. King Tywin stood off the archway leading to the smiths and listened intently as Lady Sansa issued her instruction in a low, crisp voice that carried far, nevertheless, on this still winter morn. Privately he deduced she reserved such a tone for men and dogs she strove to bring to heel. And he wondered when the whelp had grown into her mother. 

That she had beaten him to the morning was sufficiently remarkable. But as he pricked his ears, he learnt the fuller measure of the child woman. That she had perhaps shadowed her father closely or else was a quick study, for her questions were considered and weighty — even for a man. 

“Your Grace,” the Lady Sansa murmured, dropping a beautiful curtsy. She arose after he grunted his assent and when she straightened herself, he beheld up close the grown woman before him. She was taller in stature than he ever remembered, the crown of her head just equal to his chin. A willowy, handsome Northern prize that any House would have clamoured to bed and claim, and yet Joffrey had spurned her for the Tyrell minx. _And I had let him,_ thought Tywin darkly, his hooded eyes searching the woman before him curiously. Her own gaze remained latched on the square silver clasps down the front of his ebony leather jacket. _So pride and humility have learned to wear the same face,_ he scoffed softly to himself. For the Lady would not look up to him.  

“How may I serve Your Grace?” she enquired now, her voice pleasant and empty of feeling.  

‘You may tell me how you came to understand the needs of men in war, having never fought in one.” 

At that, Lady Sansa lifted her countenance and he was satisfied when he caught the flicker of uncertainty. 

“You heard me talking to our blacksmith.” 

‘Indeed.” 

“I was seeking his counsel.” 

“You were also giving him yours.” 

“The work of the forge cannot abate if we are to be ready for the Undead. They needed surety on many matters and I am the Lady of Winterfell, Your Grace.” 

“Indeed you are.” 

At that, the same flicker of uncertainty crossed her face and he watched as her expression smoothed to glass once more.  

“I have not displeased you,” she ascertained, her tone careful not to betray her suspicions though he could read them plainly nevertheless.  

“Are you in the habit of invoking my displeasure?” And because no good could come of any answer thence, nor did he ever enjoy forced sycophancy, he demanded her audience there and then if only to interrogate her on their war efforts thus far. 

Haltingly she led him through the armoury, pointing out the different servants and the Northern vassals they each hailed from. He noted how she knew most of them by name, and by their manner he gleaned that she frequently came by. And though he anticipated her hesitation as his own questioning grew in boldness and complexity, the Old Lion came away reluctantly surprised by the depths of her knowledge. Clearly the young Lady Sansa had taken up the gauntlet and meant to govern well and seriously. Though she be only a woman, Tywin was suddenly tempted to envy the late Ned Stark.  

“Did I understand correctly, Your Grace, that Ser Jaime is to come with grain?” she asked him now, after a lull in their careful conversation.  

“The skirmish on the Goldroad with that wench and her unnatural reptiles was regrettable,” Tywin bit out drily. "But thankfully, most of our hoard was spared and as such, we have enough to sustain our own men for a time without relying on your stores.” He watched carefully as the young woman's countenance brightened visibly for the first time since he demanded her company this morning.  

“Not all kings think to do this,” she replied softly, looking away though a small, pleased smile now played on her lips. She murmured almost to herself, “Nor queens, for that matter.” And Tywin need not guess as to the full weight of her meaning. His eyes narrowed shrewdly.  

“I have heard that you are your mother’s daughter,” he stated baldly before dismissing her with a single curt nod. The Old Lion knew, without once turning back, that her eyes never left him as he made his way to the guest house across the courtyard.  

* * *

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/47796248241/in/dateposted-public/)

She climbed up to her chambers when the sun was almost at its highest to find her brother waiting for her. Jon stood when she entered the room and without another word, she turned to sweep the corridor with a sharp glance. Satisfied that she had not been observed nor followed, she closed the heavy oak door softly and faced the Warden of the North.  

“I haven’t been in here since I was a boy.” 

“Mother never thought it proper after a time.” 

“She never thought me proper a’tall.” 

There was little to say to that, and Sansa bid her older brother sit on the old wooden chair in the corner while she smoothed the bed before gracefully seating herself. 

“I came here to talk about Dany.” 

_Dany_. Sansa tightened her mouth at the name. That he would be so familiar as to presume… Jon warmed the foreign bitch's bed. It was the open secret in Winterfell. Even Bronze Royce knew, and the man was as gullible as fish.   

“Sansa…” 

“Is this about the southron king?” Sansa’s narrowed her eyes. “Have you come to take her side once more? To scold me again, like I were a stupid little girl? Tell me how I had no right to invite whomever I pleased into my home…" 

“Tywin Lannister is no ordinary guest, Sansa! The queen was right to be angry!” 

“I only finished what you sought to begin when you all dragged a wight down south! How am I the enemy now!" 

“I came,” Jon rubbed his eyes wearily, "to see if you… are well. After yesterday…” 

“Your queen told me how I might have comported myself differently. I have listened to her counsel. What is done cannot be undone.” 

“Sansa…” 

“She has no cause for concern, your Dany. I held my tongue and was meek and mild. After all, I took my lesson from _you_ that afternoon.” 

“Sansa…” 

He sighed, sinking deep into the little wooden chair that used to house her dolls between its legs. He looked ridiculous and overlarge on the stool, the cares of the world suddenly heavy on his shoulders. But Sansa remained unmoved by his plight, as much as she understood the sagacity of courting and keeping the Targaryen’s favour. 

“She is our queen, Sansa. Not just mine.” 

“Of course.” 

“You say that, and yet it feels like you are fighting her beneath the surface. I bent the knee!” 

“By the old gods—We are well aware of what you did, brother!” 

“I cannot do this without you, Sansa!”  

Jon Snow stood now and crossed the room, impetuously taking his place by her side on the bed. He took her hand and stared straight into her eyes, the gray of his so dark they almost resembled the dragonglass he constantly spoke of.  

“The Northern lords listen to you. They look to you, just as much as they look to me. They watch the both of us, not just me. A rift between us signals weakness, and we can ill afford that now with the Undead marching towards us.” 

“I know, I know Jon…” 

“The worst thing for us is to erupt into a factious war that we will lose. We are barely three thousand men strong, Sansa!” 

“You forget the Knights of the Vale.” 

“Even with them, the Night King outnumbers us all ten times over. You _know_ we have to unite behind Daenerys. She is our greatest hope.” 

At that, Sansa quietly retrieved her hand.  

“Meeting her price had cost us dearly, Jon. You gave her our freedom. I don’t know that the North will forgive you that.” 

“They will when we survive the slaughter of the Night King.” 

“And _if_ we survive that slaughter, what then?” 

“We go on living, Sansa.”  

“We go on living in obeisance to _her_.” 

It was an argument they had before, though not in so many words as this. Sansa shook her hair behind her shoulders and took a calming breath. 

“Do you trust this woman, Jon? Or do you love her?” 

He looked at his sister, bemused. “Does one not commonly beget the other?” 

“I trust no one, Jon. But I love you like a brother.” 

He gave a short bark of laughter then. “Do you not trust me!” 

“It depends,” Sansa replied bluntly. “Do you love her?” 

This time, he avoided her gaze and stared out the window. 

“She says she loves you. I don't know her true heart but it is clear she has formed a deep attachment to you, and even appears anxious that we should be sisterly. But then, I no longer trust pretty words, Jon.” 

“What did they do to you, Sansa?” he asked in a low voice and she knew he did not expect an answer. Brother and sister sat in the thick silence between them, each a hundred leagues away from home. 

“And what about Tywin Lannister?” Jon asked suddenly, smirking when he added, “the southron king? The queen is still unhappy you agnised his kingship in front of everyone.” 

“We need him, Jon.” Sansa answered simply, turning to face him squarely now. “And as long as he is fighting alongside us, he will not stand against us yet.” 

“And if this should be a trap?” 

“Then the gods help us. But Bran has seen Ser Jaime and what Tywin says is true. Thus far. You need to bring him to the table as soon as tonight. Learn how he thinks.” 

Jon nodded slowly and Sansa was a little assuaged. It still vexed her that he should sacrifice the North to Daenerys so readily. _Perhaps this was a gambit, a ruse,_ she tried to comfort herself. Jon loved the North fiercely. His love never wavered, not like hers had when she was a fanciful child who dreamed of leaving the cold and dank for the seductions of King’s Landing. She knew better now, but Jon never wavered. He was southborn, but a Northman through and through.  

_Surely he has a hidden plan_ , she prayed desperately. He never said he loved his new queen. 

“Can you steer her at least?” Sansa asked finally. “Can you guide her to better paths, for all our sakes?” 

“She is the que—alright, Sansa. Yes. I will try to sway her.” Jon paused then, and when he spoke again, his tone was careful. 

“You told me once that I didn’t know the man I was fighting. That I spoke to him for a single time but you had lived with him and knew how he thought, how he planned. Tywin Lannister...” She stilled then and waited as Jon searched for his words. 

“I never lived in King’s Landing. Never ate with them, was never directly at their mercy. But you grew up in their shadows. Do you think… Can you steer him, Sansa?” 

She scoffed. “As if anyone could. Steering Tywin Lannister would be like leading a lion by its tail!” 

“Still,” Jon plucked at his lower lip. “You know him better than I do. And you read men well, Sansa. I had learnt that too late with Ramsay, but I shall not make that mistake again. You invited Tywin. He is your guest now. Will you manage him?” 

“As you say, Brother. He is my guest now." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter has come, and with it the lurgy and a lot of work to do with the change of seasons. So sorry this has been yet another long wait, though I do hope to "get down to business" in the next chapter! And praying it won't take me weeks again like it did this time.


	5. Wars are won and lost here

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/33919257648/in/dateposted-public/)

A hush fell over the Upper Room when King Tywin dipped his head to enter it, and he watched how guilty eyes refused to meet his own as he glared around the room. For neither the thick granite walls nor the heavy oak doors had dampened their heated voices before.  

He counted them in his mind. Not all the Northern lords had showed, but there were enough — too many in fact, thought Tywin with a grimace. The hoydenish Greyjoy bitch was in here, as was the cockless Unsullied commander and a Dothraki barbarian. Jorah Mormont stood quietly behind his silver queen along with Varys and... Tywin swivelled now to eye the remainder of the room. _A gross surfeit of lesser chiefs_ , he thinned his lips irritably. If Ned's bastard intended to elect each battle scheme by the casting of lots within this sorry motley crew, he would sooner reach an agreeable conclusion by hurling himself out the narrow lancet window. 

For a true king does not seek consensus but forges it, Tywin knew.     

“You have joined us.” The Targaryen wench raised an eyebrow and King Tywin met her small reproof with a stony stare before turning towards the North’s favourite bastard born. Tywin jerked his head toward the rest of the room and addressed Jon Snow tersely. 

“Are they necessary.”  

The room bristled like a cat whose tail were trod upon. A look passed between Jon Snow and the Lady of Winterfell but before either of them could give a fitting reply, the barrel-chested Yohn Royce began to splutter. 

“We have more right than most in this room to stand here, Lor—  _Your Grace!_ ” Bronze Royce scowled, though he was careful to keep his booming voice low. “We will not be set outside the door like dogs!" 

“Aye, Lord Royce,” replied Jon Snow sharply, casting the older man a warning look. “But King Tywin comes at my invitation.” He turned to his silver queen now and gave a small bow. “Only if it pleases Your Grace.” 

“I would not strain to say it _pleases_ me,” the young Targaryen replied archly, “but your Southern guest may stay. He will need to see what we have planned and where he can find himself useful.” 

At that, Tywin watched as the Lady of Winterfell blinked twice before her visage smoothed to marble. Barely a slip of the veil concealing her true thoughts, but Tywin found himself briefly assuaged nevertheless. He twisted his mouth and chose to hold his tongue. 

“Still,” Daenerys Stormborn continued after a time, "I agree with… King Tywin. There are too many in this room.”  

Ignoring the swell of indignation at her words, she turned to Jon. “Qhono and Torgo Nudho will stay, as will my closest advisors. Choose your five best, Jon Snow. But send the rest away.” 

Again a look passed between Ned’s bastard and his sister, and this time their silent conversation seemed to install in Jon Snow a renewed confidence. He carried his young queen’s bidding swiftly, much to the disgust of the Ironborn and the chagrin of the Northern lords and the lady-child from Bear Island. Amidst the dark looks and grousing as the better part of the disparate assembly took their reluctant leave, Tywin was faintly surprised to find Lady Sansa among the remnant. But there she resolutely rooted herself like a tree, hands clasped demurely in front of the leather of her heavy gown even as grown men and lords who once fought beside her father shuffled out the room.  

“So you see, Your Grace,” Daenerys Stormborn smiled coolly at Tywin now, “I am inured to reason after all. I am not always at cross purposes with you.” 

_Only because it had suited your purposes to even your odds,_ sneered Tywin to himself as he surveyed the remaining members of the room. The little bitch may have declared herself queen of all, Tywin surmised, but it was plain she was no closer to winning the hearts of the Northmen than he was. Except unlike the wench, Tywin did not seek their love — only their utility.  

Jon Snow gestured to the oak table in the middle of the room and as they gathered around to stare at the generous map upon it, Tywin was quick to discern the differences between their world and his own. He had seen many charts in his time in many war rooms, but never one with such detail as this of the North and what lay beyond it. Now his hooded eyes roamed the terrain greedily, willing his mind to memorise every holdfast, plateau, mountain, gorge, and snare. He stared at unfamiliar names. _The Frost Fangs. Craster’s Keep. Hardhome._ And what he had always assumed to be colourless, empty and devoid of all character now came alive on the parchment before him. Here vast mountain ranges and endless forbidding plains were captured in reverent detail and given nuance. Even the forests were gifted an array of colours beyond deathly white. Castle Black sat almost centre of this world and Winterfell, its far cousin south. Tywin deduced instantly that this was the map of the Crows. 

“We cannot afford a siege,” Jon Snow announced to the room and several grunted their agreement grimly. “They are th' Undead, and th' Night King can afford to wait as he has done for a time. They are a force that does not need to be fed, that will not grow weary.” He glanced at his sister then and she gave a slow nod of encouragement. “Th' longer we avoid this war, th' more they stand to gain as they starve us out. 'Tis no other way.” He stared around the room dourly. “We have to bring th’ fight to them." 

His tone brooked little argument and there was none to be found. Tywin had suspected as much with the morsels he was able to glean from the cautious, tightlipped Lady of Winterfell. Even with Jaime’s wagons, they could ill afford a protracted standoff. Not against an army who could not feel the cold. Whose morale would not flag. 

"Th’ Unsullied will be positioned 'long th' front here,” Jon grazed his fingertip before the northeasterly wall of Winterfell where a line of roughly-hewn wooden soldiers stood. “Th' trebuchet and catapults will act as both aggressor and protector and be manned 'longside here,” he gestured in front of his wooden soldiers. “All Dothraki 'orsemen shall form a long front and stand to charge on our command. As they do, th' Queen will ride her dragon and strafe th' Dead while th' catapults fire. Th’ other dragon will roam and defend as needed.” 

“Your fortifications?” Tywin asked, his face impassive. 

“A line of wooden structures designed to impede, wrapping around the girth of Winterfell from here to there…” piped up a mellow voice that instantly pulled and grated at his nerves. The Targaryen’s misshapen Hand stepped up a small stool now and with a thin stick, he indicated their defences. Tywin’s stare could have bored holes into the Imp's skull and as if the latter were suddenly attuned to Tywin’s silent malevolence, the small ball of man winced a little as if in pain. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.  

“These obstacles will not put them off for long, we know. Which is why they will be backed by a long flaming trench in front of the wall.” 

“And what happens after they cross this impediment?” Tywin now asked silkily, poison lacing his words.  

“The walls of Winterfell itself will be the second line of defence. Following which, we will erect an array of obstacles within the castle walls. But… one is hopeful that we will not even need to count on them.” 

"The Queen’s dragons are our biggest weapon and hope,” finished Ned’s bastard. “And e'en before that, th' Undead are not like th' Living: their strength is in their numbers, but against the tight discipline of th' Unsullied, they may not even prevail. The dragons will destroy their number from the back as th' Dothraki counter them from th' front and whatever of th' Dead that survive th’ Dothraki assault will be met with th' immutable force of Greyworm’s men. We will string them out this way.” 

A soft murmur through the room marked their general approval, and Jon Snow looked about him gravely before his gaze settled on his new queen. They locked eyes then, and Tywin watched as her own softened for the serious young man. She straightened her back, then turned to face them all. 

“It will be hard,” she conceded, eyeing each man, “but I have confidence in you all and in this plan. With Jon as my commander and with my dragons—“ 

“How many.” All eyes turned sharply to look upon King Tywin at his question. “How many does the Night King have. At the Dragonpit, you claimed they have over a hundred thousand.” 

“Aye,” Jon Snow nodded. 

“Do they have cavalry?” 

“There are dead creatures that they ride. Yes, horses.” 

“How many.” 

“As many as they manage to raise. Perhaps a tenth of their force?” 

“As many as they manage to raise…” Tywin repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing as the wheels in his mind turned. “How are they led, the Undead? Can they think? Do they have free will?” 

“They appear to move under the power of a few,” Davos Seaworth spoke now, his voice gruff. “There are commanders who stand apart. You will know th'm when you see th'm. They are larger than the wights. Powerful. Gaunt like th’ long dead, wi’ flowing beards and glowing blue eyes. White Walkers, the Crows call th’m.” 

“And every weapon they touch shatters,” Jon Snow went on, pressing his meaning to all in the room. “Your swords, your arrows, your axes, your hammers, your arakhs... they mean nothing to these creatures. Your best hope is dragonglass. And if you have it, Valyrian steel.” 

Tywin brushed the hilt of Widow’s Wail by his side. 

"Tho’ no human word passes between th' Undead, each White Walker exerts their will o’er many. It is like their life force runs through their wights. You kill a White Walker and his soldiers fall,” finished Ser Davos.  

“And you have seen this with your own eyes?” 

“Aye,” affirmed Jon Snow solemnly. “For I felled one with _Longclaw_.” 

“You said they… raised them,” Tywin pressed, watching Jon Snow closely. To the young man’s credit, he did not flinch from Tywin’s scrutiny. But there was a shadow over the young man's face and Tywin had a sense Ned's bastard had a longer tale to tell yet.  

“Aye.” 

“How.” 

“We do not know. But it don’t matter if a man were stabbed, poisoned, bludgeoned or butchered. If he were not burnt, they will raise that body.” 

“Their resurrection—does it take days? Weeks?”  

The Northmen started to fidget. Jon Snow held Tywin’s gaze for a long moment till he, too, dropped his eyes. He shook his head finally and Tywin clenched his fist slowly. 

It was exactly as he had feared.  

“We will lose,” Tywin pronounced flatly, glaring at the sorry lot before him. _Children,_ he wanted to snarl, even to the grown men. It was precisely what he had anticipated, these tenderfeet. A eunuch? A smuggler? A sellsword? A drunken imp whose one success in battle included losing half his face and falling upon an answer while Stannis beat down their door? A girl who believed herself a goddess? Who fancied herself battle-hardened and clever because she once pillaged a wagon trail with a hundred thousand screaming savages and a fire-breathing dragon?  

And even Jon Snow. Tywin had heard about the Battle of the Bastards, and how Ramsay had almost swallowed them whole until the Knights of the Vale had swooped in. The lingering rumour in the South was that it had not been Littlefinger but _Sansa Stark_ who had masterminded their timely salvation.  

“You seem very certain,” Daenerys retorted lightly, though no one could doubt her darker meaning. “Could it be that you had decided our failure long before you ever rode into Winterfell, Tywin Lannister? Would a proud man like you ever condescend to executing the clever plans of others, if they were not first conceived by—” 

“Your first mistake was staying in Winterfell,” Tywin cut in coldly. He pointed to the map. “By your own admission, you understand that you cannot last a siege with this enemy. And yet you have garrisoned yourselves in this castle — a castle which has, in the last six years, already been conquered and sacked not once, but _twice_. Is any victory worth such sentimentality?” Tywin turned to stare at the Imp with a mocking glint. “Even the ones we count as our birthright?"  

"Holed here,” he intoned as the men about him shifted uneasily, "set thus on a flat, white and desolate expanse, you expose yourself on all sides for there are few natural defences between the force of the Undead and yourselves. And so they will come for us, a tremendous army intact and moving en masse. Your first mistake was not to force them over water or gully and slaughter them as they trickled their way down south…” 

“The Vale,” murmured a voice and Tywin snapped his head towards the Lady of Winterfell.  

“Go on,” he commanded. 

“I had looked to the Eyrie,” Sansa Stark explained and by the slack of Jon Snow’s jaw, it was obvious her brother had not known of her thoughts. Ned’s grown daughter held Tywin’s gaze and when she next spoke, her voice was clearer. Stronger.  

“I have lived in the Eyrie. I remember the harrowing ascent and how steep and narrow it is. When she was alive, I had often heard my late aunt boast of its security. Its invulnerability. Even two hundred thousand wights would be forced to travail that perilous path in a single file. A moon ago, I had thought we might flee to the Vale.” 

“And why didn’t you…” But of course. Her bastard brother Jon had returned and with him, Daenerys and a hundred thousand hungry savages and cockless, mindless men.  

“We would not have lasted the course,” the Lady of Winterfell went on to explain, augmenting his private summations. “I had hoped at one time to move the weak among us to the Vale. But the journey itself is long and treacherous. We would have had to divide our men and stores, which would only have starved us all. And a moon ago, we had no assurances yet from the South.” She said the last indifferently and Tywin detected neither bitterness nor reproof. Another curiosity.  

“Where will the women and children be held now when we battle?” Tywin frowned. 

“In the crypt, here in Winterfell,” provided Varys.  

Tywin was incredulous. A scene of carnage flashed in his mind’s eye, a grotesque, rotting monstrosity tearing the regal young Stark limb from limb, the intelligent light seeping from her blue eyes as her slender body broke...  

“Did you not just claim that the dead can be raised!”  

“It takes ten men to seal the dead within their stone tombs while a simple wooden crate held our wight captive from Eastwatch-by-the-sea to King’s Landing,” Davos was quick to remind. “Your Grace, there is nowhere else to put th'm in Winterfell.” 

“Is that all you object to?” Daenerys spoke again, her lilac eyes mirthless and mocking. “That we will face off the dead in Winterfell?” 

_He will make her weep,_  thought Tywin to himself now as he ground his back teeth. _He will strip this bitch bare and humiliate her for her certainty, her galling arrogance._

Something in his own demeanour must have changed for Jorah Mormont now looked wary even as Jon Snow leaned against the oak table as if bracing himself. Tywin drew himself up to his full height and when he spoke again, his voice was low and quiet, his words clipped and biting. 

“No,” King Tywin glowered. “That is not all.” 

Looming over the map, he pointed to their little wooden horses. “Dothraki,” he clipped as the Targaryen girl narrowed her eyes and the one she called Qhono drew closer. “You think that by coming at the Undead with a massive front, you might achieve the same successes you have grown used to. You would be woefully wrong.” 

“I know they outnumber us, but we have to try,” Jon Snow cut in then, frustration etched in his face

“A frontal assault such as the one you executed on the Goldroad only works on men who think and feel. Your screaming savages were disconcerting, I will grant you that. But an army that faces such an intimidating show of force must first know fear. When you fight the Living, your best hope is that your enemies throw down their weapons and flee. You want to incite chaos and destroy their morale. With the Undead, they already outnumber you all and so your dark barbarians can hardly serve to impress. _These are unnatural creatures that you fight._ And if they are mere marionettes for the ones you call the White Walkers, they will know no fear nor succumb to panic.” 

“But the dead lack discipline and tactics,” reasoned Jon Snow now. “Of course we have not forgotten that they have far superior numbers! But our plan was to counter their march against us with a united front, disrupt their forces, and forge a path to the White Walkers.” 

“Then you should have them attack from the flanks,” Tywin returned, “for that is what cavalry are far better for. Swarm them from the sides, and only hope to induce their foot soldiers to break. Even then, I doubt they would flee. As it stands, should you order this charge you would be dashing your barbarians against a shore of immovable rocks, only to watch their annihilation.” 

Silence in the room as each man and woman sought to imagine a hundred thousand warriors falling silent in the snow. Jon stared at his map, his mouth turned down as he gripped the table harder. It had to be done, Tywin thought grimly. They must confront the truth of their position. Daenerys had put too much stock on her dragons and her Dothraki, but horsemen were only truly useful for picking away at the enemy from the sides, or for foraging and ambushing as they had done on the Goldroad. Such tactics were useless against the Undead. He would let her fling their thick bodies into the mire if it were merely a Targaryen’s struggle for his worldly crown. But if all her Dothraki will do for the Living's cause is scream as they galloped to their mass grave, it would be a fool’s errand.  

She had brought her hordes in vain. He only hoped they could sew.   

“How do the Dothraki take their orders?” Tywin asked after a time. 

“Qhono directs their paths,” Daenerys spoke as Jorah softly translated the same. The tall bronzed man had stood sullenly beside his khaleesi all the while, his arms crossed and defiant. Now he dropped his arms at the call of his name and puffed out his expansive chest. The width of it was easily four handspans.   

“I assume he screams loudest of all?” Tywin drawled. 

“How dare you insin—“

“Even our best commanders struggle to keep control over our cavalry when we war. Once the horsemen lose sight and sound of their leader, it is every man for himself. I have seen and fought in countless wars where a well-disciplined cavalry would begin with every intention of holding to their formation, only to abandon their orders by the end of the charge. On occasion, some have even pursued ambitions that run contrary to the will and plans of their commanders.” 

Tywin tilted his chin toward the proud Dothraki commander.  

“Even experienced knights lose sight of the goal. Let alone wild horsemen only accustomed to pillaging and raping.” 

At the last, Jorah Mormont chose not to render Tywin’s words but it was enough: Qhono’s eyes narrowed and he began to hurl his abuses. Yet one look from his queen was all it took to silence the brute, even as his dark eyes glowered his simmering displeasure.  

“Yes, they listen to me,” she smiled as Tywin took in this little exhibition. "They take their instruction from me. They would die for me, each one of these proud and fearless fighters,” Daenerys Stormborn affirmed. “They will take their instruction from Qhono, for he will take his instruction from me.” 

The cockless commander edged closer to his queen, as if to cast his lot openly with the lizard mother. 

“And where will you be all that time? Riding your dragon’s back?” Tywin scoffed. “Will you shriek about your destiny and desires then? Will they hear you?” 

“As long as I am with them, they will fight for me until they triumph,” the maddening woman replied with quiet conviction. “I will be their beacon. I have seen their love, their fervour for me.”

“That is if they see you at all,” replied Tywin bluntly. “It is almost certain that the enemy will attack when it’s dark. I doubt the dead will need perfect light in order to know their way. And if I were the Night King, I would make the most of my enemy's human frailties. Make no doubt about it: they will come for you in the dead of night. Which is why I ask: how do your Dothraki take their orders? Your Unsullied? You are supposed to be their roving saviour and strafe the dead from behind," he reminded drily. "You cannot be everywhere.” 

He eyed the rest of the room. “Your spirit and fervour may be commendable, but I need not remind you that the enemy is vast and difficult to kill. It may transpire that you will need to pull back for a time in order to regroup and advance again. You can plan your attack, but you must also plan for your retreat. For hasty retreats have a nasty habit of incurring greater casualties than even those suffered in battle. You must plan to stave panic.” 

He pointed to the trebuchets now. “You have placed your firepower between your horsemen and foot soldiers. I suspect you hope to force cracks within the enemy’s front before your Dothraki attack. However, unless you have at least twice the number of catapults, I doubt you could create much of a meaningful impression before a charge.  

“The worst would come should your charge fail — and we have already ascertained that it will. For then you will lose your large weapons as they are overtaken while you pull back. Those trebuchets will also impede your retreat all while you find yourself mired by your own Unsullied. Horses move faster than tortoises. Scared horses most of all.  

"These weapons should instead be placed behind the Unsullied," King Tywin explained now to a rapt room. "The biggest ones might even be behind the walls of Winterfell if they will fire that far.” To his satisfaction, he watched as Jon Snow frowned before he slowly nodded in agreement. 

“And then there is the women and children. Lady Sansa was right to think on the Vale, but she was also wise to recognise that it is no longer an option. Not at this late hour.” 

“That is not the only reason we remain in Winterfell, Your Grace.” The young lady raised her chin. “The men here need us. Who else would sew and prepare your leathers? Your fleece and your furs? They do not make themselves. The war upon us is great and we, too, are needed here." 

“Not all of you,” Tywin replied drily but there was a small note of regard in his voice. "Are there other holdfasts you can flee to?” 

“Not many up North,” replied Jon Snow wearily. “As it is, they each suffer themselves as there’s not nearly enough to go 'round while they prepare for th' Dead. They would sooner decamp and set for _us_ but we canno’ have them.” 

Tywin narrowed his eyes as a sudden thought took hold. 

“How many?” Tywin slid his finger across the Wall. 

“Six hundred?” piped Davos. “More or less?” 

“Castle Black? Or the entire length of the Wall.” 

“The Wall used to have five thousand men,” Jon Snow replied grimly. “Alas, we are now six hundred across.” 

“And Last Hearth?” 

“Eighty, maybe a hundred thousand.” 

“Men?” 

“Men, women, children.”   

Ned’s bastard met his gaze then, even as the others in the room looked to each other in confusion. Tywin stared at Jon Snow and finally understood the morose disquiet that plagued the young man before him. He knew. _He knew._ Jon Snow understood, perhaps better than anyone. And now, so did he. 

Tywin swallowed before he pointed to Karhold. 

“Three thousand soldiers. A hundred thousand smallfolk.” 

A sharp gasp from the Lady of Winterfell, quickly smothered. Tywin pointed to the Dreadfort and Jon could barely be heard when he eked out, “Two hundred thousand. Maybe e'en more. All smallfolk.” 

Tywin nodded and turned to gaze out the lancet window. Darkness had wiped all other colour from the earth and he knew he would never get used to the way the north winds shrieked their pain in the night. Winter had come. And even if Jon had forced them all to flee their homes, where in seven hells could they have gone? Certainly not Winterfell. No—Winterfell would take their fighting men but leave the smallfolk to perish on their own, and the Night King would claim them anyway. 

They were fodder, these minor houses. They served as a brief hindrance for the onslaught of the Undead, and perhaps Winterfell might stand to gain precious time in the meanwhile. Except how many would they now face on the night of reckoning? A hundred thousand dead trained soldiers and two, perhaps three hundred thousand untrained ones? 

“How quickly can he raise them all?” 

“A moment, Your Grace. It takes but a moment.”

A deathly silence fell over the room. Fear and anger swelled in its stead, and the air grew thick and heavy with unformed questions.   

“Daenerys Stormborn,” Tywin finally spoke and for once, the Targaryen appeared uncertain and even subdued. “I suggest you urge Rhaegal to strafe the dead while you hunt down the White Walkers as a matter of urgency.” 

“It is not so easy,” she replied, her voice almost a hush. “They wield... supernatural ice spears and are extraordinary in their strength and precision. They have already killed one of my children.” 

_That explains where the third one had gone,_ thought Tywin darkly though he was not elated with this news. 

“Is it possible, you think,” coughed the Imp suddenly as all eyes turned to fall on him. “That is… surely it wouldn’t be possible for the Night King to… revive Viserion, Your Grace?” 

“He already has.” 

The disembodied voice had come from the corner of the room untouched by the dancing light from the fireplace. But all eyes now squinted into the darkened cranny as the youngest Stark emerged from the shadows on his wheeled chair. If Tywin had noticed him before, he certainly had not known of his continued presence in the room. And until only a few days before, he had even thought the strange young man nothing more than a dumb mute.  

“Bran…” Jon Snow went to him now as did his sister, who took the reins and pushed his chair closer to the fire. “What did you see?” 

“Chains,” the young man replied simply. “The dead hauled your slain dragon out of the ice and the Night King turned its eyes blue.” 

A strange sound slipped from Daenerys Stormborn’s throat before she bit her lip. Jorah Mormont moved instantly to her side and without another word, the young Targaryen rushed from the room, her handmaiden running after her. 

“It appears our conference has ended for the night,” King Tywin announced brusquely to the room. “Expect more unhappy realities in the coming days. We all need far more answers to questions left unsaid and as such, I expect each of us will improve our reconnaissance before we next convene.”  

With that, he swept from the room and did not deign to cast a second glance behind him. His steps were sure, steady and clipped as he marched back across the courtyard. But as King Tywin neared his tower, he reached down instinctively and drew Widow’s Wail before suddenly turning so his blade met sharply with the bark of the nearest tree. _Damn them,_ he cursed as he thrashed away. _Damn their silence, their ignorance, their youth and their fear. Damn their certainty, their beauty, their unspent potential, their carelessness._ He hacked at the oak till the pain jarred his arm, till his vision blurred and his ears sang from anguish. And then he stared at the blasted, hateful snow and knew he could not die here. Surely.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once read a comment from a medieval war nerd with serious academic chops who spoke of how war plans were actually pretty light on the detail. Here's an actual one (translated from French) of the 1415 Battle of Agincourt. It's hilarious.
> 
> "All the archers of the whole company will stand before the two wings of foot-soldiers, where they will be commanded by the knights and squires appointed by the leaders of each wing, each on his own side.”
> 
> And that was it. 
> 
> The more I read about the Battle of Winterfell, the more sympathy I have for that woeful strategy. They really were in over their heads, and I think I forgot how very young and untried they actually were. But hey. At least they had a plan, right? In this chapter, I attempted to flesh out the possible rationale behind Jon and Dany's battle plan, and also cover off some of the other niggles I had that never quite got addressed in the series. Poor Tywin's only just figuring out how much they don't know they don't know. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed trying to cobble it together. xx


	6. Harsher realities

## Jorah

He had tracked her without knowing how nor why, only that he must. It was his second nature now; he wore her upon his very soul, and his eyes constantly sought her safety. 

It was a rare thing for Jorah Mormont to lose his _khaleesi_ , but found her he did eventually among the snow not two leagues from the stones of Winterfell. She was standing so very still now, her iridescent skin, her long platinum hair the perfect concealment against the virgin snow, save for the streaks of flaxen that shone like pale spun gold in the muted winter sun. Her furs, her fleece were white today and so very thin, he shivered just looking at her. It was foolishness: the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt felt no cold, of course. 

Jorah dismounted from his garron quietly and though he was in full sight of his queen, she remained unmoved by his presence. _Was she praying_ , he wondered. _Does a goddess pray to herself?_

“Ser Jorah,” she smiled at last and held out her hand. He took it with devotion as he always did, kneeling before her in the soft snow and pressing his cool lips to her warm skin tenderly. He felt the gentle press of her other hand on his head and it warmed him immeasurably. “Ser Jorah,” she murmured again and he heard her relief and welcome as he moved to stand. There was a change betwixt them, he marvelled silently to himself once more. E’er since his cure and return, it was as if a veil had been torn and he saw her more clearly than ever. _Only by her mercy_ , he hastened to remind even as his heart gladdened. Dare he hope that she trusted him now and forever? She called him her bear.

He stood beside her now and soaked in the sun and this moment’s peace. And though her thoughts were a thousand leagues away, he was grateful to be near her again and alone. He never thought it possible, but the North held little charm for Jorah Mormont now. Jorah the Andal... twice disgraced, thrice banished, now come home except there is no home where his queen is despondent.  

“They do not want me,” she spoke softly now. 

“They do not know you,” he was quick to reassure, his voice husky and certain. 

“And I do not know them.” She turned to face him now, looking up to stare at him solemnly. He saw instantly, in her amethyst eyes, the hurt of it. The way it gnawed upon her spirit. Jorah Mormont understood only too well how the soul eats away when something plagues the mind and the body. 

“You are of the North,” his queen gestured now to the rocks and snow and quiet. “I know you are too much a friend to lie to me. Please… teach me. How do I change them? How do I make them see me?” 

“It takes time, _khaleesi_ ,” he replied gently. “The North is stoic and proud, and they prize their independence more than gold. More than ever. You will be their champion and you will free them from the wheel, I know it. But for now, they want no other name than their own. No other king or queen than their own… for now. 

“After the war,” he dared to promise, smiling slightly as her lips tilted up in hope. “Once they see who you are, how you fight for them… They will love you in their own way, in their own time.”

“Love…” she murmured softly, looking away again and for a moment, Jorah wondered if they had indeed been speaking of the North or only of one Northman. He did not know Jon Snow, though the young man's reputation long preceded him — first through his father, and then by his own deeds. By all accounts he was brave, honest, upright, and true. They say Ned’s spirit burns bright in him. 

Jorah brushed down his forearm, the one first marred by the scale that should have taken his life. By the grace of the gods and the urgent tears of his _khaleesi_ … Yes, Jorah was alive now and he should not, he _would not_ begrudge an honourable Northman for delighting the heart of the woman he loved more than his own life. Jon Snow was no swaggering Daario — far from it. He was bastard born but a king natheless and though the boy was no equal to Daenerys Stormborn, he had more claim than— 

 _—No more,_ Jorah sighed unhappily. It had to be enough that he stood here by her side and that she sought his counsel and liked his company. Once upon a time, he had dared to crush her young breasts to his own, to kiss her thoroughly. No more. 

“What do you think of our plan?” She tilted up and looked him full in the face, her eyes round and trusting so he felt his old heart stutter. “Was Lord Tywin justified in his harshness and obvious disgust? Or was it only theatre so he may paint me the fool?” She flushed, her anger and mortification still lying close to her skin. 

“There was certainly a… vaunting of his knowledge. Lord Tywin did rather exult in our misreckoning of the enemy and I am sorry he showed you such disrespect, my queen. I thought you showed great strength and magnanimity in allowing him to air his counsel.” That earned him a grateful smile that softened her features. And O that he were the winter wind that he could trace her face with impunity...   

"I am no architect of war, _khaleesi_ ,” Ser Jorah went on to say instead, his gravelly voice serious and soft. "I am a sword and your shield. But Tywin Lannister has commanded men thrice his age since he was a child — just as you have. And though I do not like the man, I think it wise at least to pay him heed. Right now, he has thrown his lot with Jon Snow just as you have. Pay no mind to the bluster: he wants what’s best for him and right now, that means what’s best for us all.”

“They respect him, you know. The North. In that room… they hate him but they respect who he is.”

His young queen fell silent then, but Jorah heard every last word left unsaid. Now he wondered what to tell her of the shrewd old lion they had let into their midst, for to share his peculiar insight was to delve into a painful past that had hurt them both deeply. Should he, for instance, tell her of how it had been Tywin’s careful calculation that first rent them apart? That the crafty old lion had guessed at Jorah’s shifting allegiance? That he had chosen his time and when it was well to strike, forged a pardon in Robert’s hand and ensured its receipt by Barristen Selmy? That Tywin Lannister knew _exactly_ how the pardon would expose Jorah's treachery — and that the old bastard had counted upon the inevitable devastation it wrought in the young queen? Throughout her righteous rage and deep anguish after his exposure, Jorah had never told how he had first received the pardon years ago — even before the attempt on her life at Vaes Dothrak, of which Varys was most certainly complicit.  

(Varys. But that was best left as ancient history now, or so he had to tell himself constantly.) 

It had been Jorah's growing devotion and ensuing silence that had ironically incited the Hand of the King to close his fist. This was Tywin after all — a master at reading the desires of men and women, and how to move them like cyvasse pieces. A man who knew exactly who to watch and when to grow wary. 

“Tywin Lannister has always feared your power, Your Grace,” he told her in the end. “He kept a careful eye on you, as you know. He would never have done that had he not realised from the start how formidable you are. I do not like the man, but I trust his mind and his instincts. He is harsh and makes a show of his disgust precisely because he sees you as a threat. Do not be disheartened, _khaleesi_. He has their respect but not their love — never their love."

He felt his throat thicken suddenly with memories strong and stirring. Should he tell her of the day she came fully into her own, Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, Breaker of Chains? How she lit in him an unquenchable fire the morning she stepped out of the smoldering pyre? How she made his heart swell whene'er she wielded the whip, only to cast it on the ground? How she so easily aroused devotion. Incited the deepest love. _You will win their hearts, their minds, their strengths, their spirits, Khaleesi. I speak as one who lives for you… as you know._

But the words died in his throat even as his eyes softened. Or perhaps she heard them anyway, as perhaps goddesses are wont to do. Daenerys lifted her eyes to him now and he watched as they grew round and wide as if with sudden comprehension. And instead of dropping his own gaze, he held it steadfast even as heat climbed up his neck and heightened the whipping cold about his face.  

For an instant, her eyes filled with compassion mingled with a certain sorrow. She blinked and she was calm once more. He watched as her shoulders eased and was glad for it. 

“Was I too trusting to leave Jon to contrive our plans?” Daenerys ruminated now, a small frown creasing her forehead. “I cannot always tell what is expedient and what is… that is I do not…” She shook her head a little in frustration. “His plan had the look of soundness to me, but then I had not questioned his judgement…” 

“And so you are wise to surround yourself with good counsel, _khaleesi_ ,” he comforted her. “For we are yours to command and it is our duty to serve you best as we know how. A great leader is one from whom hope flows so it carries her followers forward with the tide. No one can be both needle and thread. Do not berate yourself, my queen,” he soothed again.  

“And what of Tywin?” Her voice was tight as if the words were bitter as bile. “What of _his_ counsel?” 

Again he heard the true questions behind her words. Again his heart gently swelled with tenderness that she should bare herself to him. It had been a time since he had seen her anxious, even afraid. 

“Wise leaders surround themselves with adversaries who run contrary to their natural thoughts and desires. The challenges they raise often serve instead to illuminate the path to victory. _Use_ him, my queen.” Ser Jorah hesitated now before he dropped his gaze, his heart girding itself for the words to follow. 

“If Jon Snow were even half the man his father was, you will do well to trust him, _khaleesi_. The man is honest to a fault. He will do right by you and the North love him like their own son because Eddard Stark did the same. Keep him close to your side and you will win them all, my only queen.” 

* * *

 

## Gendry

She slipped past him soundlessly but he had long felt her eyes rest on him in the dim of the forge. Still he worked, hewing the red-hot iron more vigorously than was strictly necessary, the muscles across his broad shoulders and down his arms rippling and glistening with sweat in a way he hoped was pleasing.

Not that he knew how Arya Stark regarded men and their musculature. 

"Stop pretending I'm not here," she quipped now, still leaning against the rough wood pillar. "It's rude." 

Gendry shrugged but looked up and grinned at her. "I'm busy."  

"Everyone is busy." 

"You're not," he teased as he turned to work the bellow until he was satisfied with the fire. "You're just standin' around doing nuh-fink." 

Arya rolled her eyes at that but a quick twist of her lips told him that she took no offence. The loud hiss as metal met water filled the silence between them for a moment and as the steam cleared he persisted in his outward neglect of his friend, though he felt rather than saw her every move to the side of him.  

She turned her back to him eventually and it was then that he stole a glance, taking in the form of her and how her figure had lengthened and filled in the time between, in a way that made him sit up uncomfortably. Not even the men's clothes she still insisted on wearing diminished her reluctant and newfound femininity. If anything, her fitted trousers accentuated the length of her legs, and her belt cinching her jacket tight at her waist drew his eyes naturally to the new curves of her. She had grown full breasts though he suspected she tried in vain to hide them behind leather and he closed his eyes now as if to banish the treacherous thought, only for his mind to betray his body as it instantly conjured a form beneath that was soft, pale and yielding.  

She had always been arresting, but now she was also a wild beauty, all the more so because she remained resolutely blind to the very fact. Did she not own a looking glass? Gendry tried to imagine her peering at her reflection and adjusting her hair like a grand lady, and he snorted to himself. That was not Arya Stark, and yet he was convinced that she looked even lovelier now than her older sister, unadorned as she is, her jagged hair chopped short undoubtedly by her own hand.  

Arya might kill him of course, if she heard even half of his present thoughts. Again he bemoaned how he had not witnessed the famed swordplay between Arya and that woman giant. From the numerous whispered accounts of it, he would have even parted with his favoured hammer — for a time — to watch her best Lady Brienne. Again it baffled Gendry that the girl who once dressed as a boy should become this lethal. 

Now she was picking up the pointed tips he had painstakingly knapped yesterday, each one sharp enough to lacerate the fingers of less experienced hands. But Arya, now strangely so wedded to her Needle, was in no real danger of maiming herself. 

"Don't bloody drop that," he muttered. "Took me hours to chip that pile."  

"Chip?" She frowned. "Don't you forge this?"  

“You can't forge Dragonglass," he explained patiently. "At least not well. I tried and it nevuh comes out sharp an' hard 'nough to cut frozen onion, much less corpses. Comes out blunt and brittle." 

"Why?"  

"Because 'tis glass," was his short answer. And before she could bicker with him, he went on to explain. "The knives your brother bro’t from Castle Black aren't like nuh-fink any of us've seen. We can't make 'em the same." He grinned now, though his eyes remained troubled. "Perhaps 'em Forest folk made th'lot, maybe with their tree magic. But the only way we get the edges is through knappin' 'em." 

From the sack beside Arya, Gendry picked up a lump of coal-black Dragonglass the size of his fist and she watched wordlessly as he held the rock with a piece of thin leather before striking it decisively so it splintered into three. He chose the biggest piece and struck it again, this time satisfied with the thinner flake that broke off in his hand. As he shaved and chipped away at the remainder, he felt her discomfort until at last she spoke.  

"How many?" Arya asked, tipping her chin at the two larger broken pieces from his first strike. "What are you left with by the time you finish whittling?"  

"From the first lump?" He stared at the broken pieces, then looked away. "The most I've managed is four." 

"Four?" 

"Arrowheads." 

Silence as he continued to chip deftly at the flake in his hand until at last he held up the semblance of an arrow tip a mere fragment of the flake before, which had itself been a mere fragment of the piece before that.  

"Four arrowheads," Arya repeated dully, staring at the sack at her feet. "And how much Dragonglass did they bring across?" 

Gendry grimaced. "Not 'nough." 

* * *

 

## Tywin

At a squint, Tywin espied his stoic captain-of-guards from when he was still a half-mile off, the weary yet determined plod of Vylarr's gait crushing ice and snow underfoot as he made his way eventually to the high bridge where Tywin now stood coolly surveying the grounds before him. There were not five years between his longest serving soldier and himself, Tywin was reminded suddenly, taking in Vylarr's thinning silver hair, the deepened creases of the skin, the slight stoop of the younger man's shoulders that nevertheless did nothing to diminish his stature among his men.   

Decades. Years and years had Vylarr served House Lannister regardless of Tywin’s obligations to the crown and still the man remained timeless in his way, his face bland, his service unquestioning, his word true and forthright.  

“Was I right?” Tywin demanded in a low voice without preamble. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” was the quiet reply which prompted Tywin to suck his teeth with irritation. 

“Spit it out, man! How many of those ships survived the attack?” 

“Just under half a thousand, Your Grace.” 

“So she lied.” Or at least withheld the fuller truth. And as Vylarr continued with his meticulously curated report, Tywin’s eyes narrowed as his suspicions were proved. 

Eight thousand Unsullied — two hundred phalanxes, not counting the others. And her precious Dothraki… thirty-five thousand screaming savages all told, with only a horse apiece.  

Daenerys Targaryen might be the _khaleesi_ of a hundred thousand Dothraki. But even savages and their stallions need ships in order to leave an island. The only consolation Tywin observed, hollow as it presently seemed, was that the blonde fool had chosen her cockless men over her primitive ones when they boarded their remnant fleet.   

_A hundred thousand savages,_ Tywin snorted now, closing his hand into a fist until it shook. Peddling a notorious reputation throughout Westeros had, no doubt, helped conjure a fearsome mirage that quailed her enemies and buoyed her previous campaigns— including the one against his own gullible son on the Goldroad. But this was now a war against mindless corpses where neither reality nor illusion will compromise their enemy’s will.   

“Ten thousand Northmen?” demanded Tywin now and watched as Vylarr gave a slight nod. “And the Vale… twenty-thousand on foot, along with two thousand calvary?” At his silence, Tywin huffed. “At least the Lady of this House speaks truth of  _her_ numbers. Has Daenerys thought to send for the rest?”  

“Yes, Your Grace — though not her entire fleet, I’m told. They should be a sennight from Blackwater Bay by now, all going well.” 

“And still they might not arrive in time. She would have chosen to avoid the Kingsroad, taking the Knife up to White Harbour before sailing round to Dragonstone.”  _Especially as she had no assurance of a truce with King’s Landing until now_ , he conceded without guilt. 

Tywin closed his eyes, expelling the air in his lungs in a slow exhale as he envisioned their complete numbers, grinding his teeth as he sliced and sorted them all in his mind’s eye. Again and again he envisaged the moment the enemy descended upon them like a violent plague, the clash of steel and bodies, the snarls and screams in the terrible black. Each time, no matter their position and schemes, silence would eventually fall. Tywin shivered, his eyes narrowing until at last they fell upon a familiar figure. 

“I wonder if Lady Sansa knows her precious stores and hospitality are abused by a far smaller host than a hundred thousand Eastern boors,” he remarked cuttingly as his stare rested upon her retreating form which seemed to stiffen under his watchful gaze. Surely she did not make her rounds in the encampments outside her walls, a young woman looking as she does traipsing alone within the stink of lawless, carnal barbarians. He grimaced.  

“It was Lady Sansa who first apprised me of their number with any sort of certainty,” was Vylarr’s gruff admission. “My own eventual inquests found her estimations to be sound."  

The Lady in question turned around suddenly as if in answer to her name, though nothing in the general bustle below that Tywin heard suggested it. Her gaze swept round until it snagged upon the bridge. That she caught him watching her was a certainty; Tywin saw the subtle change of her countenance — again that careful blank as if porcelain skin were her armet — before she turned back slowly and resumed her course without so much as a nod to his presence. And instead of earning his ire, he found his interest piqued.  

Both men followed her as she weaved among the men, her long red hair worn down like a thick veil marking her progress as she stopped on occasion to interrogate a knight, a craftsman, an errand boy.  

“She commands the hearts of her men more than the other does, for all her fussing.” 

“Do you mean her bastard brother, Your Grace?” 

“Snow… Stormborn… Sansa Stark has the measure of her men. I see Jon Snow with his wild brutes,” Tywin arched an eyebrow at his Captain. “I never see Daenerys Targaryen." 

* * *

  

## Bran

The Three-Eyed Crow flew over the Wall, noting the dearth of life and the eerie silence below him. There were men in the Wall, he knew, though he sensed rather than saw how they huddled in twos and threes below and within, clutching miserably at life even as an army of death stood lifeless, malignant and waiting not a hundred miles northeast of their pitiful fires.  

There were few ravens in the air, fewer still this morning than yesterday and the week before that. And that was both a sign and a nuisance. Warging into birds had always been easier than any other, even when he was Bran the Broken. He had tried with Ghost, though the mind of the dire wolf always seemed strangely preoccupied and immune to his probing. He might try again with a horse, though they spooked easily. And as for other sentient beings... 

His eyes narrowed. Bran Stark had sworn never to enter the mind of a man again. But that was Bran. As the Three-Eyed Crow, such vehement vows should have no such hold over him.  

At that last truth, he came suddenly to himself, feeling the steel and leather of his chair, his prison of dead legs. Wearily, he leaned his head back on the ancient heart tree and closed his eyes.  

White. Feet sure and steady on ice now, The Man who was Bran looked up and stared at the cloudless sky and wondered where in time he had wandered to. No ravens, and the unnatural weeping and muted sun suggested a more recent past. Perhaps two, three sennights at the most, though he was starting to find time tiresome in the way it warped and bent and blended.   

The snow was different here, the Man who still might be Bran noted as it crunched underfoot. He walked, savouring the distance he could forge on his own and the profound truth that he was no longer at the mercy of the fortitude and devotion of another. He thought of Meera and turned his mind’s eye elsewhere. 

He did not know how long he trekked nor thought on a thousand things but when at last he emerged from the black barren forest only to meet a cliffside, he ventured slowly to the edge and looked down. 

A sea of black and rot covered the expanse a few hundred metres below him, sending an unnatural chill up Bran’s spine. Near luminous specks of bluish-white dotted the unnatural army below him. They did not move, he realised, each of them waiting. Each corpse standing as still as the gnarled trees he had just passed behind him. Even from here, he could pick out the Night King. His preternatural nemesis seemed to glow brightest of all. 

He was waiting. They were all waiting. Unmoving.   

In a trice, the Three-Eyed Crow stood alone in the field of untouched snow, the sea of rot motionless before him. The Night King stood before his army and raised his head. When he smiled, his crystal blue eyes glinted and shone.  

His age-old nemesis lifted a reed to his lips as if to shoot an icy dart. The Three-Eyed Crow ducked and disappeared before it could find its mark.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even begin to tell you how thankful I am for your patience, and how frustrating it can be to be kept from writing. But here I am, and here is another set of complications.


	7. Keep your secrets

## Gendry

“If you M’lady me, I swear I’ll toss you over,” Arya muttered before turning asudden to face him. Gendry’s face broke into a broad smile. She had been standing alone on the wallwalk by the east rampart, wrapped in such thick furs she near resembled Ghost standing on his hindlegs. But now she swung herself over with graceful ease and dropped soundlessly before him, not a foot from where he stopped. He could see her breath in thick puffs. She was mad for standing out there. He was mad for following her. 

“Shan't stand too near th' edge, then.”  

They both flashed their teeth as they shared a brief smile and he felt the corded tightness within his chest ease. She was still his little friend, underneath this new hardness. This familiar foreigner.  

“Got yer somefink,” he muttered now and retrieved the bundle from deep within his furs. He unwrapped the linen before her curious eyes, careful not to rip them while he fumbled, his fingers already dead in the cold. “Found a way to get ‘em large an' sharp without knappin'. Took a fair fiddlin' and can't do it for every sod, but here.”  

Gendry watched as Arya took the black blade from his hand and held it up to the moonlight. She felt the point and his chest swelled with pride and relief when she whispered, “Yes.” 

“Sharp ’nough for yers?”  

“It’ll do.” 

He snorted but still he stared as she felt the weight of her weapon in her hand. “If ’tis good ’nough for _milady_ ,” he drawled now, "I’ll make th’ rest of yer spear.” He barely averted her fist in his belly as he laughed. “Come find me on the morrow. Should be done then.” 

“Does it break easy?”  

He shrugged. “I ne'er fought wi' glass before. But these don’t shatter easy.” He watched as Arya held the fat of the blade, a half-smile playing on his lips which froze when the edge whispered past the top of his ear. Gendry spun round to see his workmanship embedded to the hilt in the snowy ground.  

“Seven fucking hells, Arya!” Which only made her laugh, the high ring of it so strangely sweet and girlish that he found himself discomfited and dazzled.   

“Stop gawping,” she scowled now, pulling her furs around her.  

“I kenna help it,” he grimaced and turned away, his gaze now affixed on the blade in the snow. When he finally spoke again, his voice was faint.  

“How do yer fight so good, Arya?” Gendry glanced up at her before turning back to the snow. “What happened?" 

She huffed impatiently. “I learnt to fight. To _properly_ fight.” But he shook his head as if to refuse her answer. 

“You changed,” he accused, turning back to stare at her. “You’re harder somehow.” 

“Life got harder.” 

“D'you even cry anymore?” he wondered and this time, her fist met his arm so he winced. 

“Don’t be a tiresome fucker, Gendry Waters.” She started to saunter away and he called out after her now, suddenly craving truth from her lips. 

“Did you find… good folk?” He ran his hand through his hair, hating his dullness with words. “Were you hurt?” 

“Of course I was hurt,” was the brusque reply but he saw that she clutched her belly, almost as if by instinct. 

“What, you were with child!”  

“Don’t be a tit!” she groaned, exasperation writ plain on her face now. “As if I were desperate to be with a man!” She laughed again but the notes held no mirth now. “The only child I nursed was my list of faithless fucks. See? I haven’t changed at all.” 

“I just thought…” 

“I was in Braavos,” she cut in bluntly. “I was in a temple in Braavos.” She stared at him for a long moment till she made her resolution. “I was with Jaqen H’ghar.” 

“Jaqen…” Gendry tested the name on his lips before his face grew hard. “You mean… Harrenhal!” In a trice he was afore her and he spun her roughly around to face him, shock etched on his countenance. “ _Him?_ ” 

“He saved us all!” Arya reminded him flatly, shrugging free. Gendry let her go, though he felt his insides turn to ice with sudden fear and understanding.  

“Gods, Arya…” he breathed. “He, your teacher? How many have yer killed?” 

“Not nearly enough,” was her wry answer. 

“Yeah? But how many?” 

“A few.” She looked at him evenly. “More than a few.” She smiled suddenly. “I made for a hopeless disciple, though!” 

“For you've always been Arya Stark,” Gendry finished softly, grudging pride tinging his words even as they confessed to having wronged her. She shrugged again and leant down to pull her blade from the snow. And though the wind picked up again, he did not imagine her strange reply. 

“I might have been no one." 

* * *

## Daenerys

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys called and watched as the taller woman froze in mid retreat before slowly pivoting to face her queen. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtsied deeply and Daenerys felt her hackles rise once more for she was now privately convinced that the lower Sansa bowed, the greater the masked insult.  

“Do not let my presence here deter you from your ritual”, Daenerys insisted, infusing her words with warmth and magnanimity. “This is your home, your godswood after all.” 

“I did not want to intrude on Your Grace’s solitude,” Sansa explained once she crossed the snow to stand before her but Daenerys waved away the courteous falsehood as if it were but a dancing fleck of snow.  

“You can hardly intrude,” she smiled widely. “I welcome your counsel and your company always.” If Sansa doubted the sincerity of the last sentiment, she did not prove it; the two women moved toward the greatest weeping heart tree and wordlessly seated themselves abreast on the largest root arching out of the frozen ground like a god's bow. Sansa flinched beside her as Drogon and Rhaegal each loosed a sudden shriek to their earthly mother before taking to the moody sky and Daenerys waited until her children were but a speck in the clouds, steeling herself in the meantime until she turned to soften her staunch opponent.  

“I never thanked you, Lady Sansa, for your wisdom.” 

“Your Grace?”  

“Lord Tywin. His presence here… You showed much foresight in keeping our greatest enemy by our side. I rather him here at Winterfell than back in King’s Landing dividing our efforts and plotting our demise. I… overlooked the advantages we would gain, when you named him your guest.” 

She waited now for Sansa to rise to her praise but the younger woman neither demurred with thinly veiled pleasure nor averred Dany's confession. Jon’s sister kept her head bowed and her hands resolutely still on her lap. At length, Dany finally spoke again, swallowing her consternation with effort. 

“Have you much insight into Tywin’s fuller plans?” she asked and this time Sansa raised her head slowly to look upon her queen. 

“Me, Your Grace?” 

“Tywin holds you in some regard, or so I’m told,” Daenerys replied lightly though she watched the other woman closely. “He suffers no fools but my men tell me that he thinks you at least tolerable. Enough to be spared his barbs and open contempt.” 

“It does not signify that he chooses not to speak ill of me,” Sansa replied blandly. “Indeed I doubt he chooses to speak of me at all. I would hardly bestir his personal scrutiny."  

“I know this cannot be true,” Daenerys stared into Sansa’s eyes, pressing her meaning. “Jon tells me that you mean to gain Tywin's confidence and so spy on him.” She leaned away now, satisfied that she finally had the younger woman’s proper attention for the lady now look struck, her pretty mouth thinning to a single line. “And you are being modest, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys smiled with forced sisterly confidence. "For you and I know that his man Vylarr has made a private survey of you. Your efforts with Tywin, whatever they may be, have clearly paid dividends.

“I am the Lady of Winterfell,” was Sansa’s stony reply. “Tywin's man would have undoubtedly made a study of us all, to gain the full measure of the North.” 

“As have you of him,” Daenerys needled lightly, though she burned inwardly at Sansa’s choice of words. O how skilfully had Sansa denied her queen’s sovereignty then, Daenerys raged, or else glibly subsumed her subjects into this stubborn, wintry tribe. The North indeed! Sansa Stark, Daenerys had long learned, did not misspeak.  

The same girl lifted her chin then — the minutest of challenges even as she kept her countenance clear, her eyes cool and dispassionate. And Daenerys wondered at the change, even as her own skin seemed to prickle and her passions roil in tune with her chagrin. Where formerly Sansa had kept her courtesies and maintained an air of detachment, Daenerys now sensed in the younger woman a distinct flare of displeasure.  

No matter, Daenerys decided. She would choose to let this battle pass. For now. 

“Keep your secrets,” she smiled, laying a hand on Sansa’s and squeezing it perhaps a little too tightly. “Your elegance and discretion are famed beyond the North. I know you will apprise us when it is time.” Sansa's eyes narrowed at the last and Daenerys knew then that her warning had found its mark. It was a small victory, enough to assuage Daenerys so she felt her anger melt like a mist in the sun.  

“Come now, Sansa,” she coaxed her more gently now. “There is much more that binds than divides us both.” 

“Like my brother?” Sansa replied with a smile that did not reach her eyes. 

“We both love Jon,” Daenerys agreed quietly. “But more than that — we are young and women, and while we were powerless, we never broke. And look at us now, you and I! We each wield power over men when once we cowered. It is no easy thing and I am grateful that there is another — that you are here! — for we can understand one another.” 

“I will serve my queen,” Sansa intoned dutifully but Daenerys would have none of that. 

“You will do more than that,” she affirmed determinedly. “For when the time comes, I mean to give you the reins to the North.” 

Sansa’s cheeks coloured then, though Daenerys could not tell if it were from pique or pleasure. A delicate moment passed before the Lady of Winterfell spoke again.  

“And what about Jon?” 

“He will stay by my side,” Daenerys patiently explained, a small reassuring smile to benefit his sister. “For he has a gift with different peoples. He moves others in ways I do not and together we will break the wheel.” 

“Break the wheel...” Sansa echoed now, suspicion shading her voice.  

“Yes.” Daenerys was the portrait of serenity. “The time of wars and death and intrigue and treachery… the enslavement of the weak, the rampant corruption of the strong — those will end. With me.” 

“And how will you bring this new world, Your Grace? If each kingdom in Westeros and those beyond do not understand your vision for peace?” There was a jagged edge to Sansa's question, though her voice was soft and her visage, cool. 

“I will conquer them. And then I will set them free.” 

“A benevolent tyranny.” 

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Do you doubt my probity?” 

“I believe you to be most sincere.” 

“Sincere!” Daenerys laughed softly. “Say what is on your heart, Sansa.” 

“Very well,” the younger woman replied, her clear blue eyes meeting Daenery’s gaze fully. Finally. “The North,” Sansa sued, as Daenerys already knew she would. “You speak of conquering to set the world free. Until my brother bent the knee, the North had declared themselves sovereign and spat on the Lannister yoke. Why should we trade our new freedom for a young wheel-breaker?” 

“Because your brother is Lord.” 

“I am the Lady of Winterfell!” 

“And he is Warden of the North,” Daenerys smiled. “I understand the two offices were once one and the same. But now he is your Lord as Warden of the North. And I am his queen.” 

“I am well aware how my family’s duties to the North have come to split asunder,” Sansa replied through clenched teeth. “I only question the logic of being enslaved if we are to be freed again.” 

“The strong must protect the weak,” Daenerys replied, swallowing her anger and appealing now to the Stark woman's renowned compassion. “You have a duty of charity to those weaker than yourselves — to fight for their freedom and eventual peace in lands where they have no natural champions. I cannot break their chains with my dragon children alone. I need my Dothraki. My Unsullied. My peoples in the East, my Southerners when I free them from Lannister chains… and yes, my North.” 

Sansa sucked in a breath.  

“And when all is said and done?” she asked Daenerys now, her breath shallow. “When you have reached the furthest ends of the world, both known and unnamed… what then? What will you erect in its stead? Will you go softly into the night in this bold, free world of your making? _Could_ you? What happens, Breaker of Chains, when you have liberated us all?” 

“I will be your queen.” 

“But you say we will have our freedom!” 

Daenerys shook her head, her newfound pity for the younger woman almost muting the anger she felt before. “For too long, Lady Sansa, you have understood the world and those who wield power only by the transaction of fear.  

“But do you not see?” Daenerys’s tone was gentle, even kind. "I am different. I will be your natural queen because you will love me.” 

* * *

## Tywin

“Again!” Tywin commanded and scowled when Vylarr creased his brow in consternation. 

“Your Grace—"

“ _Again_ ,” he snarled, disdaining the telltale tremble of his right arm as he held the longsword above his head in a hanging stance and waited. Though Widow’s Wail had been fashioned from half of the Starks' monstrous greatsword, it was still a grand and handsome specimen befitting any king. It was long, nimble, lighter than common steel and far sharper; gold lion paws on the quillon separating blade from hilt belied its new Lannister heritage now, as did a long red leather grip comfortable for two large hands.  

The last feature was wasted on all Lannister men, it seemed.  

Vylarr blinked — always his tell before the man struck — and when he lunged, the two exchanged a rapid set of blows. His Captain-of-Guard was granted a natural advantage as he held his own longsword with both hands, affording him both reach and stability. But Tywin was taller, stronger, and wont to deliver punishing strikes with ruthless efficiency. 

“Do not hold back from your king!” he roared at Vylarr now, freeing himself from a bind as he trapped Vylarr’s sword before throwing him to the stone floor. “I am no invalid,” he spat, “and I command you to fight me! Advance and _fight me!_ " 

He waited as his captain jumped once again to his feet with a grunt. Sweat streaked down both their faces behind the golden red armour but still they parried and clashed. Steel rang and rasped against steel until at last, Tywin landed a vicious cut across the torso of Vylarr’s armour.  

“Enough!” Tywin announced, returning Widow’s Wail to his scabbard. “That will need mending now,” he gestured distractedly at Vylarr’s chest as he opened the cheek pieces of his own burgonet. “Are you harmed?” 

“I am not, Your Grace.” 

“Good,” Tywin intoned, removing his helmet altogether now. “Bring the crossbow.” 

Again Vylarr’s lips puckered unhappily until they resembled a pig’s arsehole. “The hour is late, Your Grace.” 

“I will sleep well and long when I’m dead, as will you.” 

“It is not my sleep that I care for, Your Grace, but your arm—"

“And what of it!” Tywin dared, pivoting suddenly to face his interlocutor and loom over him.  

But Vylarr was obstinate. “Your fighting arm must rest! The maester was right — you will do yourself more harm than good if you constantly tax your strength more than you can bear.” 

“I can bear it,” Tywin insisted grimly. “I will have to learn to bear it. The night will be long, and no enemy living or dead will care to grant me a reprieve on account of my restrictions. This—“ he jabbed at his left arm now, “cannot — will not! — incapacitate me! Now bring me that crossbow!” 

He waited, his back straight and unyielding to his captain, until the defeated man silently crossed the room and placed the desired weapon in his king’s outstretched hand before departing the chamber, closing the doors behind. As always, Tywin stared at the lion sigil on the prod, burnished gold and gleaming against the flickering light as fire licked and curled around the wood in the hearth. As always, he felt himself transported as if through time. One long finger slipped instinctively into the trigger and his eyes glazed as he lifted the crossbow and fired. 

A satisfying whisper before the bolt found its mark with harsh finality, embedding itself in the rough smile of a manikin stuffed with straw and covered in pig’s hide. Tywin loaded another cross bolt and this time, it found its mark in what would have been a small man’s groin.  

It is Tyrion now, he imagined, writhing and groaning in pain as his most favourite appendage is pierced and devastated. Again his howls of mercy and remorse as another cross bolt hit his stump of a leg. Pinned his shoulder to the ground. Shattered his knees. And yet try as he did, on the nights he gave into these fantasies, Tywin could not envision the final stinging shot through the head or the heart or the throat.  

At the very least, he smiled to himself thinly, he hoped the traitorous pissant soils himself. 

* * *

## Jon

He had seen Sansa flee the godswood. He had watched unhappily as his sister — head high, mouth set to stubborn — had swept from the iron gate with Brienne at her flank, her usual regal mien all but abandoned with each quickening step.  

There had been no mistaking her hot fury.  

He had not come to his sister at once. Jon's chief duty was to the other and so he had gone to her instead. _My queen,_ he had murmured later, brushing his nose in the warm shell of her ear. _How did it go with my sister?_ Dany had smiled up at him with that quiet, unshakeable confidence she always wore like a mantle.  

_I am fine, my love._ She had kissed him softly then, weaving her child-like fingers into his own. _We were telling truths, that is all._

Later they had spoken of Tywin when the shadows of night covered her face and bared her feverish longings. Always Tywin now, as she sought Jon's assurances once more. _The South, the South…_ Always the fantasy of spurning and burning the insufferable Lion before claiming her rightful seat of swords, this present unnatural war at their threshold but a perfunctory diversion. 

Jon had kept his tongue still, though amazement had roiled within him. She could taste all her victories, he knew. He could not. She remained resolute and eerily calm when he could not even contemplate the end of the year. Dany’s surety both buoyed and bewildered him, just as surely as did her surprising uncertainty. With him and him alone, she revealed the full array of her contrariness. Fire and ice. Faith and doubt. Love and terror.  

With him, she could be both adamantine and afraid.  

_You will be by my side?_ she would ask. _You will rally the North at my call?_

_I gave you my word, my queen._

_I will still be your queen?_

_You are my queen._

It mattered little how often he told her. Jon Snow had long forgotten the count these anxious weeks, though it never seemed enough. _Yes, she was his queen: remember how Tywin had caused the death of the brother he loved most? Yes, we will march upon the South. Yes, yes… anything._ He must strive to remember it all, he scolded himself now, these ancient grudges and petty wounds that he must take up again when this war was finally over. North and South!  _And yet it is but chaff,_ the greater part of him would rail. _The chasing after empty husks while the north winds howled of their end times—_

_But she cares for the chaff!_ the other parts of him would hiss in reply. _So_ y _ou must try to care. For all our sakes, as much as her own._

“You must rest,” he murmured to her now, tracing the lines of her bare lithe body in the dark. He wondered if he could ever tire of her heat, the fit of her. Indeed, she never seemed to tire of him nightly.  

“I cannot sleep.” 

“And yet you must,” he insisted, “for we need our wits about us soon.”

“For the war?” He could imagine her lips setting in a disapproving line now. “Or for the quarrels about it?” 

“We can ill afford the time for quarrels," Jon replied sourly and at his tone, he felt her stiffen suddenly beside him. He sighed long and hard into the dark and his next words were chosen more carefully.

"In the war room tomorrow… don’t let Tywin incur your wrath, or at least be sure to hide it from him, Dany.” Jon pressed his lips to her temple as if to draw the sting from his words. “For the more you show your displeasure, the more he will delight in seeking your humiliation. You need not cede him any advantage. He is your equal.” 

“No, Jon. I am his _better_ ,” was the muffled admonition, but he felt her body sink deeper into the furs and hoped she was drifting finally to sleep even as he kicked himself for his carelessness. “But yes, I am no stranger to giving men a long rope, for your kind does like to yarn about your achievements. I’ll let Tywin talk,” Dany resolved, her voice quiet and hard. "And then we will decide what our true course will be."  


End file.
